laugardagur, mars 22, 2008


Dreams of you are out of season, but then you weren't actually in this one.

There were several of us in what was meant to be your apartment. There many rooms, beautifully and extravagantly decorated. Nothing was as I remembered it. Each boasted a heavy, Jacobean piece, deeply carved. I guessed that these had been taken out of storage, and I remarked on them. Já, gott að þeir fá að njóta sín. (Who was the speaker? A lackadaisical guide of some kind.) I was surprised at the half-wall. The apartments hung out over a huge open space like the balcony of the theater. Construction was taking place down there.

Walking out, I saw a wall hung with clothing on hangers, some of it children's clothes, little suits from a hundred years ago. (They were too rich to have been yours; you were born in a dirt-floor house and grew up poor.) What will happen to the clothes? I asked. No one answered, and then we were outside and the door shut behind us.

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