his fellow citizens

The son's alarm is an unpleasant buzz, an old electronic clock out of the eighties of the last century, a mass of cream plastic and red electronic figures.
Then his iphone sounds, a honking alarm sound, a klaxon.

Listen to him rushing to turn the things off, worried that he will wake the rest of us.

Awake already, step out of the bed and sort the clothes. It is cold, a warm pullover is the most sensible.
Go into the sitting room, there is the son on the floor, checking the contents of his school bag.
He gets up, spreads out the arms, a morning hug.


Then he starts to comb his long red hair, the hair that he has only under pressure allowed to be trimmed. It has been over shoulder length for years now, for five years, maybe longer.

Take some cold coffee from the coffee machine, it has been there since yesterday early afternoon.

Sit at the computer, see that another massacre has taken place in the USA, a man dresses himself in black and goes to slaughter his fellow citizens. This is not to be understood.


This is the last day of the work free period.
Bus and train tomorrow, café and notebook.