He has an ugly face. God was at fault.
His thoughts are a little distant, like carnivals in a foreign land, his nights are lonely, very lonely and sleep always evades him, mostly in summer.
Mostly in summer.
He is sleepless tonight and very lonely, sleep is evading him yet again. So he invents a habit, his ugly hands throws tantrums beneath his abdomen, and after a while he is soporific. Like an infant patted to sleep.
A habit is born.
A good habit?
It stays with him, the habit, and ends rather abruptly when he turns
Thirty three years, three months and three days,
the very day his darling mother brings him
A wife.
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