There is an inconvinient echo of our steps
when we walk without speaking. The house looks like a desert.
Towards the corridor, something stands out: a closed door.
Do not look.
Behind: more desert.
A picture hangs sharply in the wall: Spaghetti, by Ute Nuhn.
The contrast of the white and black makes me suddenly go mad .
I watch through the window by practicing a hollow in the curtain: towards the corner begins the city.
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