snow

 It is seven minutes past seven, it is turning lighter outside, and there is light snow, with tiny snowflakes falling diagonally. Look up at the roofing of the house on the opposite side of the street and see that it is white, covered in the water crystals that were predicted on the weather forecast last night. After the hot and sunny weather of the last weeks, this seems like an outrage. 

Breakfast is finished, the pills have been taken. The family is asleep, and the cat,having been fed, is sleeping again too. It is time to make another machine full of coffee and go to the loo.

The news on the computer this morning was full of the same bleak stories, violence everywhere, violence and death as a means to an end. It can hardly be true that a nation calls itself civilised when it can visit such destruction upon another nation in the interest of its politics. It is childish.

And if we are all children, what will we be when we grow up?

The snow is falling steadily, and the second pot of coffee is not made yet.

Today is the day with the appointment to visit the building worker. She is an artist. She makes mosaics.

And she wants a picture of one of them. This is curious, for who calls a photographer to make pictures of art today?