Home alone…

Today is Tuesday, the 12th of February 2019.

Bromford is calling from … well … from Bromford. The man who is called like the town and who never goes anywhere. Bromford has never been anywhere. Bromford is and always has been in Bromford. Nowhere else. Kylie is confused. The llama is worried. Or the other way around. Vice versa. Ed Sheeran stopped singing because the music device dropped to the floor releasing itself from the headphone cables. And Bromford is wondering. Where are the best animal and the best friend I never knew I ever had? Travelling, they say. Visiting the United States of America, every single one of them. The penthouse on top of the skyscraper on 666, Whitaker Lane, in Bromford, the town which is called like the man by the shore and seaside is evidentally empty. Evidentally is a word Bromford is not using that much. But why does this dude at work always call him "Sir"? Is that what they call "mocking"? Maybe that is why the Muffin Man lives on Mockingbird Road. Bromford drinks another cup of coffee. He pours himself another cup of coffee. Pot… What if he spills another pot of coffee? And what happens when he spoils another cup of coffee? Go back to the depths of your own block-blog. What happened to the restaurant in the basement of the apartment house? Where is Speedy, the little mouse-like bar-keeper? Any news about him? Bromford pours himself another cup of Tuesday. Or maybe it is a glas. If Tuesday was a drink what would it be? Hot chocolate, I think. Tuesday is a hot chocolate with a shot of Whiskey. The evening is dark outside the penthouse windows. Come home, llama, Bromford thinks. Come back…