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Notes03/05/2020
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Magineer
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Magineer
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It#s a boring life out there but someone#s gotta live it...
An early darkened autumn evening, light drizzle dances in front of the street lamps. The sidewalks are still full of people when K. comes out of the office and joins the crowd. He clings to his bag a little as the stream of bodies sweeps him through the pedestrian zone, and although he would like nothing more than to have his feet now hanging felt-slippered over the right-hand couch backrest, the cosy yellow light of a fragrance boutique, trimmed to the old-fashioned style, seduces him to stop and take a break. The main thing is to get out of the rain...
It's warm inside. It smells as if a couple of perfume bottles have exploded - or maybe it's the loudly discussing club of the executive secretaries, who single-mindedly clear the Jo Malone shelf and generously distribute the contents over the iris-fogged office aura they have brought in on their décolleté. K. turns around and unexpectedly stands in front of the shelf, which, like a lamp spirit, promises the fulfilment of all his wishes. A glittering mélange of gold, white and various primary colours, centred around a coat of arms of the sun, which celebrates the glory of abundance in its splendour. K. unerringly reaches into the compartment in front of him, pulls out the bottle that seems most beautiful to him and holds it up to the light. Of course, only he hears the choir of angels, which is at this moment blaring a hallelujah at the top of its voice, but his rapturous look now even catches the eye of the approaching saleswoman, who stops in horror at this moment and pretends to be on the trail of a dirt stain in the Chanel corner. K. feels the magnetic lid, just a small movement ... the gate to heaven is open, he pushes the spray head down, spreads his arms and runs into the cloud.
Twenty minutes later, K. gets off the tram, crosses the pedestrian lights and disappears across the street into the entrance of the building. A lonely blackberry blows down the street when the door falls into the lock. Two minutes later the light goes on on the second floor, K.'s silhouette can be seen at the window, just a brief moment. Then silence reigns, interrupted only once more by the sound of the toilet flushing,
Outside, a few other blackberries remain indecisive, while a hint of incense wafts hesitantly around them, drawing the attention of some cinnamon sticks. A rose, which has managed to jump off just in time before the oud, joins the illustrious group. They all know that it will be a short evening for them and the question about the sense of their existence is therefore unnecessary. Born under a bad star and then simply all together in the wrong batch, the only thing left for them now is to wring a last smile from the night and then, as a faint hint of former glory, to be carried away by the wind before dusk. Only the honey has drawn the lucky card: Ashamedly he snuggles up a little under the warming feather blanket on K., because at the latest when the Biedermeier clock in the living room strikes six, the landlord will open the window and drive away even the last memory of Amouage's "Jubilation XXV"
It's a boring life out there, but someone's gotta live it...
It's warm inside. It smells as if a couple of perfume bottles have exploded - or maybe it's the loudly discussing club of the executive secretaries, who single-mindedly clear the Jo Malone shelf and generously distribute the contents over the iris-fogged office aura they have brought in on their décolleté. K. turns around and unexpectedly stands in front of the shelf, which, like a lamp spirit, promises the fulfilment of all his wishes. A glittering mélange of gold, white and various primary colours, centred around a coat of arms of the sun, which celebrates the glory of abundance in its splendour. K. unerringly reaches into the compartment in front of him, pulls out the bottle that seems most beautiful to him and holds it up to the light. Of course, only he hears the choir of angels, which is at this moment blaring a hallelujah at the top of its voice, but his rapturous look now even catches the eye of the approaching saleswoman, who stops in horror at this moment and pretends to be on the trail of a dirt stain in the Chanel corner. K. feels the magnetic lid, just a small movement ... the gate to heaven is open, he pushes the spray head down, spreads his arms and runs into the cloud.
Twenty minutes later, K. gets off the tram, crosses the pedestrian lights and disappears across the street into the entrance of the building. A lonely blackberry blows down the street when the door falls into the lock. Two minutes later the light goes on on the second floor, K.'s silhouette can be seen at the window, just a brief moment. Then silence reigns, interrupted only once more by the sound of the toilet flushing,
Outside, a few other blackberries remain indecisive, while a hint of incense wafts hesitantly around them, drawing the attention of some cinnamon sticks. A rose, which has managed to jump off just in time before the oud, joins the illustrious group. They all know that it will be a short evening for them and the question about the sense of their existence is therefore unnecessary. Born under a bad star and then simply all together in the wrong batch, the only thing left for them now is to wring a last smile from the night and then, as a faint hint of former glory, to be carried away by the wind before dusk. Only the honey has drawn the lucky card: Ashamedly he snuggles up a little under the warming feather blanket on K., because at the latest when the Biedermeier clock in the living room strikes six, the landlord will open the window and drive away even the last memory of Amouage's "Jubilation XXV"
It's a boring life out there, but someone's gotta live it...
