25 February 2008
Stranger than paradise
The jovial attendant, although reluctant to appreciate our bargain tickets, offered strong drinks despite the early hour.
Arriving, we traced piano keys laid out by no other than Arne Fredriksson, we'd see his signature at the bottom soon enough.
Minor closure. We abandoned the subway station, reckoning it's a cultural graveyard, but in a good sense.
Crossing the bridge we came across scattered signs of Urban Recreation, the book presented to me by the greenhouse missionary months earlier.
"Hot and cold" I thought, we were close now. No, we were touching it, I could clearly feel it, vaguely see it.
Yes, hats, plenty of them. This was in another part of town, we had gone south, I said I had business there.
Much closer, a dirty garage, the smell of a saturday night engine, oily, holy smoke. Alas, not close enough.
Nothing at first, but then the telephone rang, shaking in my pocket, Mr Jensen hailing, chewing away like Tyler Durden on some payphone. Cheerful.
As time passed, we had soon seen the last of the sunlight, from now on we'd see only streetlights on a pitch black panorama, a scent like sailors and diesel.
Direct link:
http://dayviews.com/mouvitz/2008/2/25/