Last monday, one of my favourite shirts fell down from the clothes line. I felt I little pain or empathy for the flying shirt, a Ben Sherman, but I found some relief when I saw that it had been hooked on a balcony, on the second floor. Monday and tuesday I went down to recover my flying shirt, but nobody answered at the other side. This evening, wednesday, after my first class of classical guitar as a teacher, I went downstairs and she opened me her door. It was a nice girl, maybe a young mother, thin and polite. She told me about my fortune, because the night before she received some friends and she were close to offer it to them.
I went back home, some steps higher, with a renewed feeling of the whole building where I live, occupied by some tough people. Then I started this new post with mixed feelings. The certainty that all of us, neighbours, we are strangers to the each other, and the verification that things, our closer world, our conception of it, can change everytime. This time, in the good sense.
|We never know what happens at the other side of the wall. |
Drawing: François Matton