This is a strange feeling, walking the empty hall in a house full of people.. never knowing who might be sitting in the kitchen, kissing by the stove... drinking milk right from the carton... I tread lightly, and peak through the crack before pushing my way through and into the next space.
Why is each room shut off from every other room?
This would be an especially difficult existence for a house cat, I think, unless there were a litter box, food, and water in every room. For all I know, in some houses, this is the case.
Or maybe every door in some of these Hannover flats has a cut-out cat door in the base. Since we're in Europe, they're probably beautiful and ornate... form and function.
In the bedroom we're staying in, Bernie has a babygrand piano and a love seat in front of a wood stove. Naturally, I assume that he sips brandy and reads Bertolt Brecht on long winter nights.
"In the asphalt city I'm at home. From the very start |
Provided with every last sacrament: |
With newspapers. And tobacco. And brandy |
To the end mistrustful, lazy and content..." |
Bernie has no cat.
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