Childhood, winter morning, passenger seat. I keep my jacket on and tuck my hands under my legs. The seat is soft. The cold air stays out. I don’t have to drive. I am safe.
Konstanz, my first room, in a hurry. I open the door, hurl my stuff inside, close the door. Nothing will be lost. All can wait. My room: a big bag made of stone and glass.
Paderborn, winter evening, home alone. I am eating a kebab and watching videos at my desk. The room is empty: bed, folding chair, desk, coat rack. But my desk is crowded: plate, computer, piles of paper. If I only look there, it radiates a simulated homeliness, like a snow globe.
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