This is the day that was.

Red Fidel whining for food. Pink red gunge.
An aging face looking back at me, a stranger. A big mug of milky sweet tea. A roll-up.
The same old route. I could do it blind.
Face's I know, people I don't. A helpless body and a beautiful soul. Mr. Parkinson invading a sportsmam. An old interlectual who has basically lost it. A hard rain. A beautiful soul.
Food. Because it must.
Drink!
A young woman who reads the papers, regulally wiping her nose and above her upper lip and who disappears into the toilet every ten minuites. And she smoked like a stack. She left in a hurry.
Not being bothered to eat. Battleing with technologie. Seeing red Fidel almost jump from four stories up. A rescue opperation. A heart attack.
And it's still only 21:00 .