Nothing of interest I could tell you. Because even if you are a very patient reader, it would not desire you much to know that I twisted my knee badly in the morning when missing the last step while leaving the station. You would just yawn and be right. That I ate two carrots, a banana and two slices of apple for lunch would bore you as much as it did me. Probably, you work as much as I do and it wouldn’t be any news to you that the pile of my desk is higher than any existing mountain in Ireland. You would just nod and say, come on, Read On, do you really have to be that banal? It is not worth to tell anyone and why should you dear reader count less than anyone else that always in autumn I am getting sad, while seeing the leaves fall down, even if I like to shuffle through the leaves piled up high in the parks or on the streets. Damp is the air, smells of the coming darkness and wet and heavy is the soil. Even the words laid heavy in my mouth but you would agree that someone who has nothing left to say, better remains silent. No stories to tell and no wishes left, to look once again at the falling year, to think of the summer and to remember nothing of particular importance. To see someone tired in the mirror, who now holds a cup of tea in his hands, cold fingers, day after day. It could be someone else in the mirror but in the bathroom it was my alone. No way to escape, not even briefly. On the way back, later on the train, the ticket inspector, a young lad with a baby fat face vomited within the wagon, beyond a tissue I had nothing to offer. When I walked home from the station it started to rain.