The face of the building was smiling at me. As a risk-averse actor, I was not prone to accepting fortune’s calls, but this day was an exception. All the more so because I remembered a squirrel in the park next to that building that had its… Small and very sharp claws it had, ready to dig in. Ready to climb up that tree, motherfucker. I knew I was ready as well. My enthusiasm was intercepted by a voice:

“Far upon a space, a casual building has been erected, where time has coiled itself and, although little by little, there was movement. And everyone just loved to sip on their drinks. Always and forever… Although everyone was a long distance gone.” 

The building whose friendly gaze I was suffering was not the kind of building. Just yesterday I saw this old man with a light gray beard that was shimmering with cold bronze. He had a notebook in his lap and was twirling a pen slightly. Glancing into his diary, I saw:

“This opera is a shithole for children under the age of 7. This gnome, still opening his mouth in the same strange way, long continues to sing or shout. What would a respected, wise, educated country laborer think of this poignant scenery?” 

In fact, my head was pounding; for God‘s sake. The music was spilling over the pine floor, and my fabric-based tartan plimsolls that perfectly matched the neatly pressed flannel shirt of the old man were getting soaked in it. I started believing in coincidences. I knew nothing about opera. The man sat out the next scene and left, thinking:

“Far upon a space, a casual building has been erected, where time has coiled itself and, although little by little, there was movement. And everyone just loved to sip on their drinks. Always and forever…” 

Today I finally got a job at the puke recycling factory. I am so happy! My only hope is that security will not kick me out of the bar this evening. But opera is really not my glass of shamepain.