pageant sunday

Bright day, bright morning. Hear sounds from the neighbours, this is the day the march through the town takes place, they are involved some way. That pageant, half way now. A celebration of the end of the middle ages, re-enacted every four years.

Bright outside, get up, ignore the steady hiss in the head, the hiss that will no longer allow silence to be a pleasure. Ignore the unfocussed vision, the ability to see properly diminishes with age.

The toothbrush, work on the teeth, the real and the fake. Reality and that which is made to look real, to feel real.

And is not real.

Wish the son good morning. He tells me things about the atmosphere on Pluto, a thin inhospitable layer of carbon monoxide an methane.
Poisonous.
This is his matter of interest now.

And sit down at the table with this little grey apple notebook,
a machine connected to the world, resting on the table.


Two tourists wander up the street, up early, wanting a look at the town before the pageant starts.
The town is asleep.

The breakfast cake is in the oven, warming up for the strange meal on Sunday mornings.


The red flowers in the blue vase are hanging their heads now, they are  dead.
They have been there some days now.