Last night he attacked my uncle with a knife.
Nobody was harmed.
They called the police and the police came and went.
They called the ambulance to give him something that will improve his disposition.
The ambulance came and took him away.
To the madhouse.
When he was a boy, my grandfather explored with two friends a warehouse that had belonged to Russian soldiers during WW2.
They found there bombs, and played with them.
A bomb exploded.
A boy died, another boy was badly injured – he lost that body-part that a man needs to procreate.
My grandfather’s body was unharmed, but he became weak in the head.
He’s an awfully nice fellow, though garrulous and somewhat impudent.
He has silvery hair and blue eyes, and he’s rather short.
From time to time he’s up to domestic mischief though.
A week ago he had a nightmare he could not explain. Since then he’s been seeing things.
He took to drinking.
Two days ago he hit his wife.
I am at a safe distance from his occasional misbehaviors.
My shadowy attic is stilly.
Schubert is playing “Sonata in E major”: V. Allegro patetico.
I am writing about Oliver Colors.
My locked door keeps mad grandfathers away.
All is well.(Had some trouble publishing this post and now it appears thrice in the Reader. Sorry for that!)
Are you afraid of nightmares?