sanama

I’m sitting in a greenhouse, watching a man being arrested. I’ve never seen anyone being arrested –– with cuffs and all. The arrestee asks the officer to loosen the cuffs as a movie character would do. The officer seems like he doesn’t know how one acts in cop films. In a somewhat confused manner the officer asks the arrestee to step in the back of the police car.

I’m sitting in a greenhouse, it smells like a flower shop. An unspecific scent, or perhaps I’m not familiar with botany. A pelargonium on the tip of my tongue.

I’m sitting in a gre–– the ground under me is being shaken. The landscapers are rumbling around the square, digging holes in order to pile up some dirt next to the holes. Cherry blossoms laying in vain on the site.

I’m sitting in a greenhouse, browsing books of photography. One of the books shows a culture of dying in Latin America. Another book has contents I keep forgetting.

I’m sitting in a greenhouse and I don’t always know what to do here. Once in a while I simply come here to think about it, even though I would refuse to act in the end.