They’re expecting you, saving you a seat, it’s the kind of place you enter the way you come home to your own home. The doors open in, when you turn around it’s the same, all the flags are white, white on white, there aren’t any homelands. Nobody’s face is on money. There isn’t any erosion, or the other process, building up unnecessarily. What’s hard as nails on the surface is soft as veal underneath. They don’t have separate men’s rooms and women’s rooms, or boy’s and girl’s rooms, you open a book and you’re on the same page as everybody else, when there’s an invitation everybody gets one. There’s no need to wait for a better offer. There’s somebody who wants to give you exactly what you want to have, like a one to one correspondence—desire is the first thing that’s satisfied. It’s the same for everybody. There’s a limit on how long you’re allowed to stay, not longer than the time it takes to feel at home, but when the time is up nobody turns you in.
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Featured image: The Land of Cockaigne by Pieter Bruegel the Elder.
