why is it now impossible to do the intended, to undertake the planned actions?
it is no longer possible to get out of bed,
there is no sense of objective, no target for any activities.
It is Sunday, the morning was dark, then later, as the sun rose, searingly bright.
Get up, make a cup of coffee on the machine, take the tablet, sit down and read a trashy science fiction novel.
For hours and hours.
The son is up, he had been outside, he is in the best of humours.
Sit there, reading trash, untill eleven.
Allow some musing:
what is the point of all that?
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