Day ON.
His first emotion as he opened his eyes was that the current day was the most beautiful one of his entire life. Yesterday was a draft. As a code, he sang for himself a kind of Josephine Baker’s J’ai deux amours, and he opened the day as he opened a door, widely ready to live something new with a very inspiring and a very hopeful smile. C’qui m’ensorcelle, c’est Paris, c'est Paris tout entier. Thirty seconds after he got up he was already reading his program on his phone. Colors were telling him what kinds of deadlines were coming. Spearmint for his working task. Orange for his assistant work. Purple for his friends. Red for his own project. Grey for his own deadlines. He needed first assimilating his four mugs of coffee. The Coffee-machine’s self operating program was set up at 6:00 am for a long day, and at 7:00 am for normal days. Today was a normal day. Five minutes before the time, he was here, in waiting, waiting for the program to begin. It was time to look at all of the papers and books, left in front of the Coffee-machine just to be read during these five minutes. They could be news from friends, news from the World, exercises of memorization. Sometimes just the memories of reviving facts, events, yesterdays. Boys. Friends. He needed to remember his past life to ensure himself that he could bear his coming life, and needed to drink quietly a just-a-little-bit-moistened first mug of coffee. Quietly, just after having been a little bit moistened. So, he was waiting for the program to begin. The radio was broadcasting his first morning scandals. Today, the favorite player of a favorite football team was found dead, and nobody was able to tell what happened during the day before, on The Twenty-second of January, 2014. It could just be a suicide, but it wasn't really understanding. He looked at his colored daily program on his phone, and he knew now if he would have or not the teleorganic time to give to his headache a chance to disappear. Yes. One pill. No. Two pills.
Episode Two
