I was in Paris and had to go the Invalides museum with a large group of friends, like a school trip. They were in line to enter, a handful at a time, but I had arrived late, as usual, and joined the end of the queue. I was admiring the painted ceilings (of course it looked nothing like the real Invalides) when someone told me I had to enter with the following group and so had to go back from where I was. I found it extremely unfair because that way I could not look at the paintings anymore. But I went, only I ended up in a small room off the main building. I sat at a table and tried reading, and people passed in front of me and addressed me in stilted Italian (how did they know?) warning me about the opening time next day. Then I was at my parents' home, and there were painted ceilings also in our living room. I started taking pictures, thinking they had to be studied. There was more that I can't recollect. Some parts were sad, about the past and lost days and departed people, and a bit of obsessive dreams. Must sleep better. |