The drip

It’s Sunday morning, 2.28 am.

I’m awakened by what sounds like a drip in the bedroom. Sherlock was right: what sounds like a drip actually is a drip. And it’s coming from the ceiling. I assume it’s something related to the air conditioning, but I’m not going to investigate further until a more civilized hour. I amble wearily to the linen cupboard, grab the oldest looking towel, and throw it down in the vicinity of the drip. That’ll do for now.

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Darrel Griffin

Darrel Griffin

My experiences in Depressionville