Late to rise.
A sunny morning. Pouring over an essay on the 'heart of darkness'. Mindfully walking down Prospect terrace. Examining the bees, almost hidden, as they float about a plant with small blue flowers. The mowing of the grass, ready to ravage the new wrought green, but the thread is missing. Father helps thread the weed-eater with blueness so I can go about my business. A dead rat appears upon the lawn, I mow it, then I regret doing so, as a heinous smell wafts about, the small grey carcass with its matted grey hair, utterly dead, is horrendous. I retreat into the heart of darkness and read Conrad's classic aloud. The table is set, the meal is served, the horde descends, bellies are filled, and men recline back in their seats satiated as tremulous little nieces squawk about dessert. Whipped cream with berries, dark chocolate brownie and feather white cheese-cake is decimated by all. Dinner plates are cleared, children abscond, naps prove necessary. The rocking of the children, then of one's self. The electric blue stars appear twinkling familiar lullabies around slumbering quiet rooms.
Day's end.
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