traffic of the nearby city

the brother comes into the bedroom, making noises like an alarm clock, beeping noises made by voice, trying to awaken the son from his deep sleep fueled by the Irish air and the activity in the garden centre
The son is in the land of nod, sleeping soundly on his side of the bed. So shake him a bit, untill the eyes open.
He is so tired
And outside the windows, through the drops of condensation, see Dublin bay in the distance, covered in grey light, the last of the street lights on, Dublin watched over by that peninsular mass, like a whale gaurding the bay.

Back to the son, he has fresh clothes on now, and is ready to go, into the living room and the kitchen
the coffee maker that grinds the coffee is working, all that luxury, but lovely to enjoy


The brother is at the table, working his computer, looking, collecting mail from the aether, the end of the paper mail that will survive in a corner of the room in an old shoebox, to the mail that will exist as long as the world wide web of data conduits exists.

And drink the coffee from the machine, standard type and taste.
Talk to the son and the brother, their breakfast of porridge, an exotic syrup of dates on the porridge to satisfy the filial sweet tooth.
And then they are away again, off to design a garden, to make a space in a school yard, paths through herbs and grasses.

The sister in law comes in and complains of her problems with the internet.
but otherwise there is only the sound of the waking traffic of the nearby city.