Pierre woke up with the same indifference as every morning. It was hard for him to get out of bed. He had set his alarm a quarter of an hour earlier to be on time for once. But he just lounged around, staring at the ceiling. His eyes were burning. He couldn't fall asleep, but he was always tired. Pierre felt burnt out. He had to drag this morning burden through the day, only to create a new burden for himself in the evening. The vicious circle continued. Pierre heated the kettle, went into the bathroom and stood under the jet of water. Here, alone with himself, he felt free. The jet of water poured down like a curtain between him and the world, between him and his recurring thoughts. Here, detached from the world, he felt something like fulfillment for the only time during the day. He felt a state that seemed desirable to him. Pierre stayed under the stream of water a little longer than necessary, but when he finally turned off the jet and the last drops of water sank into the puddle that had formed in the meantime, the peace and hope for a better day disappeared along with the water down the drain.
Pierre poured the bubbling water from the whistling kettle into a cup and hung a cheap teabag in it. Although he was already much too late, he watched the red streaks oozing out of the teabag and settling at the bottom of the cup like mist in a valley. When the layer was thick enough and the color gradation had made its way to the surface, he dipped his spoon in all at once and swirled the water, creating a uniformity in the color scheme that matched his state of mind. Pierre burned his tongue on the overly hot water, grabbed his bag, put the cup on the windowsill and left the house.