The time of the new office has come. So here I am, between two worlds, trying to open door to my inner Narnia. A quick look at the windows. From the side of the street, nothing has changed. Spiros from the chemical store tightens his calves and buttocks, rolling heavy barrels with reagents, as gladly as the day is long. Sometimes I get the impression that the only thing that changes from day to day is the color of his skin-tight tracksuit trousers, but Sisyphus and his boulder stay the same. The young Bengalis are selling phones, sim cards, earphones and other life-saving tools, the older ones are looking for work, aggressive ones are arguing about matters familiar only to them, nostalgic ones are chatting on the phones with their cousins, uncles and other people who may possibly send them some money, so they can send this money to their mothers and fathers pretending that they actually earned it. All chewing paan leaves audibly and spitting a bloody mess on the ground in the breaks for nodding. On the balcony covered with an iron cage, taken under house arrest for distributing marijuana, Abdul screams on me, inviting for a spliff. Passing Amer looks at him sympathetically, then turns to me and says: "like a birdie in a cage." We laugh (although I'm afraid of jokes about losing freedom). And there is a big Nigerian man right under the window, definitely not a fair-of-eye kind of guy, who receives fines from homeless drug addicts. Looking around nervously, afraid of the police, he takes out a small package from under his tongue, hands it to the homeless, who puts it under his tongue and sashay-away, sanctified by the Street Communion, grateful to the Father for helping him surviving till the next day. After him, the whole queue of broken people, one without an eye, one without a leg, one full of scars.
I'm looking behind me.
Outside the windows, a garden, sun and silence. Cats sharpen their claws against the yucca's trunk. The caterpillar eats mint leaves.
Seagulls are wailing. I need to replant the mimosa.