this is not funny any more, the weather neither cold nor hot, even through a lack of sleep driven out of bed by habit early in the morning.
There is nothing to do today despite there being so much unfinished busines all around.
The untidiness is beyond caring for, leave it to those who created the mess to clear it up.
Give up.
There is no winning.
It is Sunday, and who is happy that the weekend has begun and is now nearly over?
The eyes are sore, cannot focus, the head is whistling like the white noise from an old radio.
There is no joy in conversation.
The son makes breakfast at eleven.
He bakes a fantastic apple cake.
That is nice, he is to be admired
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