Why would I possibly want to apply for some sort of permit in this strange office, somewhere in what appeared to be a place I left maybe in 1978? And why was everybody being so incredibly friendly? Why was my point of view an ever moving, suspended one, one that was able to travel from the packed side of the room, packed with those who had no chance to receiving any permits on that day, but maybe just appeared in the location to somehow keep warm on this cold december morning… through the gates, through the glass to the other side, where the desks of the officials made sad sounds under layers and layers of paper. And there were some rather nice drawings on the walls, very nice ones. Brilliant Matisse pieces, perhaps(?), tacked onto the wooden walls with various kinds of push pins and nails and things.
And the scents were also much nicer on this side of the room. None of the linoleum smell and none of the sour old sweat smell made it to this, the official side…
As I was leaving the court house, or whatever this place was, I had to step down some very unfinished, very steep, very dangerous looking stairs. And I knew that making it down to the street level was one of the tests one had to survive to make it here. Just as much as having all the documents was one of the tests. Just as much as being able to react to any kind of questions was a test as well.
Some children were playing with their little critters… one of the animals managed to break free of its leash and ran out of the court house…
We were in a small car, somewhere out there, far away… and we never really wanted to go back…
At least I slept through half of the night, which might mean that I am slowly coming back to my senses. I am looking forward to that.
I should check if the warm water is turned back on. There have been problems with it for the last few days now.