I am going to tell you a story. It won’t take long. I will write it in English, to shorten my sentences. And yours. Of course, my story doesn’t have to be a true one, even the main character doesn’t have to be me, or maybe it is, the amateur in me. I have never written a story before, so do not expect too much. And if you want to go do something else in the meantime, please feel free. Do not worry.
When I was younger, like more than twenty years ago, I found a hole. It was in my very first apartment solely for myself. It was not a hole as a hole in a sock, or a hole in the hedge, it was as if there existed a vacuum space of time in the middle of my room. I didn’t see, if ‘see’ is a word I can use here, something vague, but actually I would rather describe it as vast, concrete. An antipode of the hoovering rock made by a design collective.
My apartment was tiny, it had just one room with a kitchen unit in the corner next to a big window that looked over the backyards of the lucky neighbours. Besides my modest sized bed there was only room for a small table and chair. The table faced the wall where three bookshelves were attached. I tried to keep a small amount of books, each time I purchased one I put one in one of the free libraries in the street.
But, who cares about my living space? I wouldn't care about yours, therefore I do not blame you for not caring about mine. And that hole made it even smaller, so let’s skip this whole hole in a tiny apartment thing.
Yesterday I heard the first mosquito of this season buzzing close to my right ear.
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