Sunday, the mental state is not good and the back aches. Not just the back, the shoulders. And the gas cooker like sound hissing in the left ear, the one that the doctor says will never go away, is loud, super loud today.
Black, and there is no wish to speak to anybody, cannot bear sympathy cannot bear no sympathy, just misery.
Pet the cat, she misunderstands and scratches.
Make coffee, sit down at the writing table.
Today is the day that the German right wing seems to be winning again, all those conspiracy seekers blaming the defenceless for their misery, for the countries misery.
Trump is blaming his misery on the country, and he is reported to be doing well as well as the british buffoon running around spreading nationalist shit after an unfortunate madman is shot for his stupid activity on London Bridge.
It is grey and cold outside, miserable.
The son unpacks a ready-made cake, Sunday breakfast.
Sit at the table, say not a word.
Not a single word.
untill the coffee has been drunk.
The cake has been eaten.
And then carry on, remain silent.
The son has a book to read
For school
a famous author
German
It is called the Perfume
The author has an Irish christian name.
It is black cold and miserable inside the head
An ordinary complete stupor would be good
lie down and go blank or something like that
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