In a loop, objects inhabit the story.
The story of a place that I found, and these objects which stayed there.
And because memory is volatile and malleable,
This fear imposes itself on me, this fear of forgetting.
So objects, I call to you, talk!
Tell me, what's the time? I think Grandpa is watching me from the window sitting at the table, or maybe he's looking at the apple tree.
I hear Grandpa ring the bell, it's noon. I hope he didn't see me.
I go into the house, everyone is at the table. I put my coat on the already full coat-rack, I take off my boots.
Grandpa has already cut the bread, another well-done tradition.
We ate well, a roast chicken and lamb's lettuce. There is bread left for tonight. We keep it under the bread bell, I go back to the garden around the hedge.
Grandpa hasn't been watching me since midday, he's probably in the garage.
I feel a little emptiness in my stomach. I go back home, lift the bread dome up, steal the undercooked piece, check if no one has seen me, and go back to the hedge.
Tell me, what's the time? I think Grandpa is watching me from the window sitting at the table, or maybe he's looking at the apple tree.
In a loop, objects inhabit the story.
The story of a place that I will find in these objects.
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