28 April 2017.
A morning wish not to have to get up, not to need to go to the bathroom, for the warmth and comfort of bed and then breakfast. Instead, hear the sound of the rain outside, the rain that is steadily soaking it's way through everything outside.
Stroke the cat, examine the clothing. All is there, available, the wallet, the pens in the camera bag, all. A pale grey light outside, dim sky, diffused light. And that steady rain. Walk down the alley, bareheaded, no hat The umbrella forgotten in work last night.
There is bird song in the rain, the birds are singing. There are none to be seen, only heard. There is birdsong, and a gurgling sound from the gutters, and the steady sound of the rain.
The bus stop in the distance, so a car pull up, somebody runs out to it, a person dressed in white. In a white raincoat.
The door opens, closes, the car waits at the side of the road, waiting for the traffic to pass. Then it is gone.
Dolores is at the bus stop, she grins and wishes a good morning. Perhaps she is happy that it is Friday, who knows. A car approaches, flickers the headlamps, undips them for an instant to attract attention. Dolores is dreaming, she does not notice. Tell her that her lift has arrived. She starts, jumps up and rushes over to the waiting car. The approaching bus sounds it's horn, Dolores and her lift move on. If the bus could wear an expression it would be frowning now.
Teachermann arrives, wearing a brown cowboy hat, with a length of rough twine around the base of its crown. The twine is in accordance with some fashion, a rustical hat.
The railway station forecourt is deserted today, wet and glistening.
And now that division in the cafe has been completed, a white wall now partitioning off what used to the cafe seating space and the eating area.
The people working here have been robbed of their view across the forecourt, to the bus station, and to the river.
Meanwhile, the coffee on the table, the black notebook. The man opposite, blue overall, chubby face, white hair, reading his morning paper. He looked like the cheerful Hedgehog out of a childrens book years ago. He does not look like that any more.
The view from the moving train shows a dark and well-soaked landscape, trees still displaying their structure, black skeletons against the fresh dim green. Some are greener than others. But they are all wet.
There are long queues of cars on the road that runs parallel to the tracks, all bringing their owners to work. They are just a mobile extensions to personal living space, a cocoon protecting the transportee from the tension and the discomfort of the outside world. Barring any contact, other than with the road, and barring any contact with people, outside of those permitted by the rules of the road.
Talk to the world by machine
A morning wish not to have to get up, not to need to go to the bathroom, for the warmth and comfort of bed and then breakfast. Instead, hear the sound of the rain outside, the rain that is steadily soaking it's way through everything outside.
Stroke the cat, examine the clothing. All is there, available, the wallet, the pens in the camera bag, all. A pale grey light outside, dim sky, diffused light. And that steady rain. Walk down the alley, bareheaded, no hat The umbrella forgotten in work last night.
There is bird song in the rain, the birds are singing. There are none to be seen, only heard. There is birdsong, and a gurgling sound from the gutters, and the steady sound of the rain.
The bus stop in the distance, so a car pull up, somebody runs out to it, a person dressed in white. In a white raincoat.
The door opens, closes, the car waits at the side of the road, waiting for the traffic to pass. Then it is gone.
Dolores is at the bus stop, she grins and wishes a good morning. Perhaps she is happy that it is Friday, who knows. A car approaches, flickers the headlamps, undips them for an instant to attract attention. Dolores is dreaming, she does not notice. Tell her that her lift has arrived. She starts, jumps up and rushes over to the waiting car. The approaching bus sounds it's horn, Dolores and her lift move on. If the bus could wear an expression it would be frowning now.
Teachermann arrives, wearing a brown cowboy hat, with a length of rough twine around the base of its crown. The twine is in accordance with some fashion, a rustical hat.
The railway station forecourt is deserted today, wet and glistening.
And now that division in the cafe has been completed, a white wall now partitioning off what used to the cafe seating space and the eating area.
The people working here have been robbed of their view across the forecourt, to the bus station, and to the river.
Meanwhile, the coffee on the table, the black notebook. The man opposite, blue overall, chubby face, white hair, reading his morning paper. He looked like the cheerful Hedgehog out of a childrens book years ago. He does not look like that any more.
The view from the moving train shows a dark and well-soaked landscape, trees still displaying their structure, black skeletons against the fresh dim green. Some are greener than others. But they are all wet.
There are long queues of cars on the road that runs parallel to the tracks, all bringing their owners to work. They are just a mobile extensions to personal living space, a cocoon protecting the transportee from the tension and the discomfort of the outside world. Barring any contact, other than with the road, and barring any contact with people, outside of those permitted by the rules of the road.
Talk to the world by machine
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