It was Sunday in here and he was sipping tea by a little window. Falling apart with the outstretched wind of before-9-a.m. and he adjusted his glasses a little bit. He had a blue pen on his right and scattered papers in front. He should be writing something but the taste of toothpaste in his mouth thick, infusing with his tea blocked his train of thoughts. He grimaced. He walks away from the window and waited for 12 p.m. to come.
