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22

 
You must be obsessed to gain entry here. You must break the rules, disregard your safety, ignore the door, quench your thirst. In short, you have to give it up. Then you might gain entry. But there are no guarantees. It might not be what
you had in mind. This is not for everyone. and know this, once you are obsessed there is no turning back. Of course you can back off, but you cannot become clean again. This is the price. There is no shortage of candidates in spite of this.
Each morning the floor needs to be swiped. They come in all forms and shapes. They persist. As this has gone on for some time, they shrink into background chatter, part of the fabric. In short, they invisibilise. Only by their silent intermittent sighs do you know they are
there at all. So you adapt, and workaround it. For him, this became routine. Sharpening of the pen, cleaning the pad. (He liked his pad clean.) Some short minutes of looking at the poplar tree outside the window, allowing for a lost in contemplation moment.
then, mind and pencil sharpened he turned to the work of the day. Careful notetaking, details so crucial in this business.
and then, each day the same time, the knock on the door, the back of her carefully dancing the tray in. The wisp of smoke trailing as if rising from her head, but of course emanating from the hot coffee she was so graciously bringing.

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12

They defy assessment, if you let them, she said. I had no choice. That is totally wild, Ifigenia. I think you are brave, clear as the liquid of truth. But it is night. Shall we? Come look, and then say. I just happened to pass by. You know how it is. The will to impose. Crumbs of crackers collecting in your shirt. Bells ringing. The Dome echo. A giant music box. Calling in mist. Calling in cold. Calling. Life on the rails. Ears throbbing. From tiredness. From too many politely empty observations. From too much waiting.
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