pigeon

 This morning, they are back. In this case "they" are a group of figures standing around the bed emitting accusations and giving pitying and angry looks. There is still the sound of screaming from the night's dream, screams of hysterical rage. There is a memory of having woken at four, and looking to see if there is anything on the computer. It was dark, the bedside light was illuminating the computer's keyboard. The group of figures are all in the mind. But still, they are there and make their presence felt.

There was nothing new then and there is nothing new at seven thirty, but for the fact that there is no need for the light. This was shining in through the verandah door and the window at the end of the bed.

Make breakfast after visiting the bathroom. The son is awake, he is preparing himself for a car journey to visit his grandparents. His grandfather had given him money to pay for the driving school, and he wants to say thank you. 

Breakfast is the standard production, take it upstairs when it is done.

The cat creeps around, and then demands to be let out.

Let it out.

Go upstairs, in misery, it is just a bad day. There is a pigeon cooing outside.