Birdsong, outside. It is just getting light.
shortly before five. The birds seem to be talking to each other, the nearby one loud, the other then faintly in the distance. Take the alarm clock to the bathroom, so as to be able to turn it off as soon as it sounds.
Whilst shaving, cut the lower lip, not
badly, but it bleeds anyhow. This is a nuisance because of the blood. go to the small cabinet in the hallway, and take out a small plaster,
stick it over the offending spot, the little
injury.
The cat is behaving very oddly today, rushing from end to end of the flat, then sitting down and listening, then rushing off down the stairways in a mad dash, only to come up again shortly afterwards. Her tail is fluffed out, she scans very excited.
Sit down and wait, it is not half past four yet. Read the news on the tiny telephone screen, many people spreading other rumours, or informing of what happened last night. Or how satisfied they were with their evening meal. On, otkintmu of dubious interest. Social media. Almost a complete waste of time. But only almost. The distant hell sounds, it is tinny urd thin, sounding in the distance, a
distant omreh, only to be heard now because it in summer, the windows are all open. Then, seconds later, the deeper sound of the bells of saint Martins, St Martin's church . at the end of the street. The sound is there sooner, but the hell sounds late.
The street is dry, the church at the end has all its bricks lit by the sunrise, orange and bright.
Cross the main street, and move on down to the river, That is where the bus stop is, and it will be necessary to wait.
* Dolores-'GHEN Morgan' she greets-the older lady, here every day, waiting for tebus. Wait and watch the cyclists, some dressed in Mountain bikers gear. some wearing short skirts. It in summer, this is a simple means of transport, door to door, less demanding on parking spots than cars.
The bus arrives, pay the man his due, sit down, wait, the bus moves, stops, people get in, people get out. Get out at the railway station, and walk past the hundreds of waiting bicycles, and a blue skip for builders rubbish. good Morning to the pig tailed smokers, he is having his usual before the steps to the station.
The coffee at Yorma's has lost format, has gone bad it is stale perhaps the beans have been stored to long. It is flavourless, strange. The cardboard cup soon adds its own flavour, the whole ensemble is displeasing. The service there does not cover for the fact that they seem to want to be rid of their gusts as soon as possible after they have paid.
The munich train is delayed, it moves slowly across the landscape, there are faults in the signals, or the level crossings. Things do not work as they should.
There is a man in the distance in an orange safety waistcoat walking along a path through a wheat field in the distance He is alone, miles from anywhere, at six in the morning.
The train moves on, and leaves him behind.
The cat is behaving very oddly today, rushing from end to end of the flat, then sitting down and listening, then rushing off down the stairways in a mad dash, only to come up again shortly afterwards. Her tail is fluffed out, she scans very excited.
Sit down and wait, it is not half past four yet. Read the news on the tiny telephone screen, many people spreading other rumours, or informing of what happened last night. Or how satisfied they were with their evening meal. On, otkintmu of dubious interest. Social media. Almost a complete waste of time. But only almost. The distant hell sounds, it is tinny urd thin, sounding in the distance, a
distant omreh, only to be heard now because it in summer, the windows are all open. Then, seconds later, the deeper sound of the bells of saint Martins, St Martin's church . at the end of the street. The sound is there sooner, but the hell sounds late.
The street is dry, the church at the end has all its bricks lit by the sunrise, orange and bright.
Cross the main street, and move on down to the river, That is where the bus stop is, and it will be necessary to wait.
* Dolores-'GHEN Morgan' she greets-the older lady, here every day, waiting for tebus. Wait and watch the cyclists, some dressed in Mountain bikers gear. some wearing short skirts. It in summer, this is a simple means of transport, door to door, less demanding on parking spots than cars.
The bus arrives, pay the man his due, sit down, wait, the bus moves, stops, people get in, people get out. Get out at the railway station, and walk past the hundreds of waiting bicycles, and a blue skip for builders rubbish. good Morning to the pig tailed smokers, he is having his usual before the steps to the station.
The coffee at Yorma's has lost format, has gone bad it is stale perhaps the beans have been stored to long. It is flavourless, strange. The cardboard cup soon adds its own flavour, the whole ensemble is displeasing. The service there does not cover for the fact that they seem to want to be rid of their gusts as soon as possible after they have paid.
The munich train is delayed, it moves slowly across the landscape, there are faults in the signals, or the level crossings. Things do not work as they should.
There is a man in the distance in an orange safety waistcoat walking along a path through a wheat field in the distance He is alone, miles from anywhere, at six in the morning.
The train moves on, and leaves him behind.
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