In between we buy a Samson Tablet. At the plaza where glitz spills in the hall and the corridors of efficient silence.
The tablets abound in stories. Stories of a prude Helmer and his wife Nora ,trying to echo feminist cries in the nineteenth century. Stories of giant insects one finds oneself transformed into. A metamorphosis.
The cold weighs you down. In the head, a brandy might help lighten.But with that kind of smell one feels like a watchman looking for sorrow-escapes in the basement. Heck, this is an annual affair. The cold is a frivolous game played in the head. Nothing serious.