A TABLE IS A TABLE
I want to tell a story about an old man, a man who no longer says a word, has a tired face, too tired to smile and too tired to be angry. He lives in a small town, at the end of the street or near the crossroads. It is almost not worthwhile describing him, hardly anything distinguishes him from other men. He wears a grey hat, grey pants, a grey jacket and in winter a long, grey overcoat, and he has a thin neck with dry, wrinkled skin, his white shirt collars are far too wide for him.
His room is on the top floor of the house, maybe he was once married and had children, maybe he used to live in another town. Certainly he was once a child, but that was at a time when children were dressed like grownups. One can see them this way in the grandmother’s photo album. In his room there are two chairs, one table, a rug, a bed, and a cupboard. On a small table stands an alarm clock, next to it lie old newspapers and the photo album, on the wall hang a mirror and a picture.