The Map Man

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The Map Man

I am up high in the map mans powder dyed palace surrounded by see through doors. I dreamt he put a bicycle in my bed.   

My white towel is on the edge of the white enamel washing machine.                                On every wall hangs a part of the world with a hole burnt through it, accidental islands. The light is warm and the walls want to know where next? The Gulf of St Lawrence or the Lands of the Eastern Mediterranean?

It’s raining but I don’t want to wear shoes. It’s cold but I won’t put on a jumper. I am hungry but I can’t eat.

The red brick brick building that had its insides on the outside and stairs heading no where is gone. If I look out of the watery glass windows I remember that sometimes I was sad here.

White waterfalls cascade in every doorway. One of the white ribbed vests has escaped from the pile and is dangling elsewhere. I sleep in a small room in a bigger room protected by white cotton from a special place not far from here. All is swaying in tune with the white hammock.

On the study table is an upside down map being gently repaired with white fabric tape.I pass by a mirror, the only reflection is mine, there is no map man.

Photographs/ Text
Leipzig , Germany

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