An apologetic employee comes back after a phone call, gives you back the papers and says that he’s sorry but they can’t do anything about it because this is the law. You thank him and make your way to the elevator which was the kind of elevator with a radio and you hear the news anchor say in a neutral tone that a woman in her thirties fell dead on the street last night and the police aren’t considering foul play. Outside you ask a stranger but he doesn’t have cigarettes. When you check your phone, there are two missed calls from a strange land line. You call back but no one picks up.  You get into a cab and look out of the window and there is a man at the doorstep of a house throwing something on the floor. You almost hit the dashboard with your head when the driver suddenly stops: It’s a red light. Later in your room you’ve undressed yourself and stood before the mirror absentmindedly looking at your reflection because this is what they do in the movies; people who are distraught and weighed down all undress and look in the mirror without saying anything, and this too is all right. The problem with anyone is that their magnified sentience and sense of self give them the impression that they have to be someone the whole time; that there should be no gaps in perception or emotion. But there are. At some point or another you fail to stir anything within your caverns; to feel anything. Or rather, things fail to stir you. All day long there are news about thirty seven people who were shot in the back of the head in Syria, or someone tells you that they love you or something doesn’t work, but there is nothing: no awe, no warmth and no cold. And this is generally why you can find yourself exceptionally saddened to hear that a random woman was randomly unplugged on the street; fell dead. Sweetheart, how could you let this happen to you?

 

 

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