The feeling of unrest can be one of the worse. I sit and get up, walk around from room to room. Visiting every room in the house searching for something that will make me feel easy. For conversations that might grab my attention. None does. Here all I can hear are complains and critical views towards things. My father, quite tipsy from the small shots of scotch he took during the day, sits in front of the TV and, now and then loudly singing some pejorative version of any famous tune he knows.My mother cooks in the kitchen whilst complaining of who has possibly broken her pressure cooker. And, I walk back and forth. My room is not cosy, the living room, the kitchen, the voices. The unrest. The lifeless expressions. The monotony of each individual being shared and duplicated through dull talks. There are days of unrest. Lifeless days. Disquiet and, monotony inside our little match box. Just a day.
This is dummy text. It is not meant to be read. Accordingly, it is difficult to figure out when to end it. But then, this is dummy text. It is not meant to be read. Period.
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