My mother has read Anna Karenina during convalescence after yet another miscarriage, years before having me. She went into depression and he never read a book. He started with Pinocchio, a chapter in the evening for a whole year to make me sleep. I called him again fennel because I did not speak well and had a fear of bloody illustration of the whale, in a stormy sky flickers like a dolphin out of the storm to eat up pinocchio discontinued as soon as more up to half an 'air. The same I wanted to touch that page and then I quickly pulled the covers over his eyes and I uiuiuiuiiiii as a pig who escapes from the slaughterhouse. After fennel, my mother has read papillon, my horrid report cards and notes in your diary. Then he must be a relapse into depression because it avoids the books like the plague.
Today I went down in the hall, still groggy from sleep. My father had mounted shelves for TV, leaving a large brothel in the revolution. Two rough wooden shelves one above the other: the one below on the wall. The one on back to that below, but supported by books. The Brothers Karamazov on the one hand, all hydrogen jukebox from each other, to support the upper shelf, waiting for the glue to dry reinforcement. Good choice.
Today my father got angry. A lot. But just as much. He entered the kitchen while I ate the macaroni with the screwdriver, the good one.
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