Sit at the writing desk in the corner of the bedroom reading the news such as it is, the news of a cynical acquittal. Sit there until tired and cold. It is six in the morning, still dark, six and Saturday.
A criminal that is not a criminal because he is our criminal. The land of the free turned to the land of the fee, an oversize banana republic.
It is cold, the cat jumps on the knees with a grunt, a croaky noise, her purr starting as soon as her furry back is touched.
She is consoling.
The cold in the room that is not being heated yet starts a shivering in the legs, put the cat down onto the ground and go back to bed.
It is a day off, a day for some luxury.
And there is no pleasure in it
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