Bad ceilings, a theme.
So Ilya the ukranian man came back on Sunday to finish fixing the ceiling. He was very short & rocked the intense immigrant look of unseasonable sweater, loafers & corduroys. He was also violently allergic to being tipped. Money offered was like a cross to Dracula. I tried engaging with him over another Kievian man I know, of about the same age - an appliance repairman - also Ilya - that Ilya had a lot of stories, and was very happy to talk to me about Chernobyl - this Ilya wanted to talk about not much of anything except to lament the state of the Crimea. And also about how he could not be tipped. "No!" He cried and raised his hands, drawing away from me. "No!" Well, I was sorry to have made it a thing.
Anyhow he fixed it all up. Agatha spent a good portion of her day trying to game with her gamer friends and I ended up too tired to do much - tired? Why yes! Exhausted actually - having woken up maybe half a dozen times - heart racing. Over and over those car-wreck dreams - the car is speeding and it wrecks! I die... I die... A car wreck. So, yeah, remembering that - shit, I used to have those dreams all the time - I shoulda got on the bus long ago I guess.