We enter the gateway, pass the large entrance door, walk without indirection into the garden. It's vain endeavor to get past the tall grass. Branches grow wild in my way and prevent me from getting any further in the anarchy of the wild greenery.
Paul walks past me and joins the dreaming idler in the ordered garden with the tended vegetable patch. The swing creaks even as he takes a seat on it. Everyone enjoys the last warm sunrays of autumn.
I turn back and step into the house. Paul follows me. The repercussion of my steps fractures the muteness of the hallway. I slowly climb the stairs. My hand wanders along the cold handrail.
Paul carefully blazes a trail through the crowd sitting, standing, dancing on the stairs. With red faces and glassy eyes they talk fevered and every now and then another lot raises their glasses to toast loudly to life. From above drone racing tunes and twisting shoes.
I open the door to the forsaken dwelling. In the dim mist of time, the empty rooms fell into a deep quiet sleep. There's a hint of cigarette smoke in the intensive smell of stone and wood. I stand in the middle of the former kitchen, watching the white shapes of bygone objects on the grey surface of the walls.
Paul immediately decides to enter the kitchen as he scents coffee. He takes a seat on the old wooden table. Paul carefully looks over the light blue cupboard, where old newspapers are piling up, consistent with himself. He takes one of the papers and a big sip from the cup.
Back through the welcoming emptiness of the house, the excited silence of the hallway, we leave the building and re-enter the gateway. He heads towards the streets and vanishes behind the fencing. I follow him, squeezing past the yellow posts. Standing on the sideway I glimpse his long shadow, I can't catch up with him. As I turn the corner, he's gone.
Paul walks past me and joins the dreaming idler in the ordered garden with the tended vegetable patch. The swing creaks even as he takes a seat on it. Everyone enjoys the last warm sunrays of autumn.
I turn back and step into the house. Paul follows me. The repercussion of my steps fractures the muteness of the hallway. I slowly climb the stairs. My hand wanders along the cold handrail.
Paul carefully blazes a trail through the crowd sitting, standing, dancing on the stairs. With red faces and glassy eyes they talk fevered and every now and then another lot raises their glasses to toast loudly to life. From above drone racing tunes and twisting shoes.
I open the door to the forsaken dwelling. In the dim mist of time, the empty rooms fell into a deep quiet sleep. There's a hint of cigarette smoke in the intensive smell of stone and wood. I stand in the middle of the former kitchen, watching the white shapes of bygone objects on the grey surface of the walls.
Paul immediately decides to enter the kitchen as he scents coffee. He takes a seat on the old wooden table. Paul carefully looks over the light blue cupboard, where old newspapers are piling up, consistent with himself. He takes one of the papers and a big sip from the cup.
Back through the welcoming emptiness of the house, the excited silence of the hallway, we leave the building and re-enter the gateway. He heads towards the streets and vanishes behind the fencing. I follow him, squeezing past the yellow posts. Standing on the sideway I glimpse his long shadow, I can't catch up with him. As I turn the corner, he's gone.
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