The room smells like dusty effectivity and sugar from premixed cappuccino powder. A lot of powder in this laborious life. 

He guides you to his late august-sun-kissed garden. He tells you about plans of going to Iceland by boat. How the intention is reaching maximum boredom. You think to yourself that this sounds healthy but suspect he won’t succeed. Heartbeats wired differently. He tells you about how his heart has not always been beating like today. How it once did not at all for several minutes. He shifts gears and tells you about how he once pulled a joke on the local newspaper. 200 puffins on my roof hahahaha.          

Back inside in the clay massacre. Turntable is the centre stage of this beautiful monochrome corner. An iPhone suspended in a tripod right above the disc looks a little like trouble. Sun can’t penetrate this hazy landscape. 

Plates are done drying. You pick them up in a cardboard box that used to hold honeydew melons. His shoes are torn open. You comment on the exposed toes. He smiles and unfolds the premixed story he was waiting to give you. Sun smiles to toes. Toes smile at you. He sends you off with tips for a beautiful detour and a subtle reference to his young days as mayor.