Opening the door to the women's washroom had never been quite so disturbing. The air was rotten, like Bergkäse gone bad. Just walk past the sink, ignore it: there is something there, it is dirtier than usual, that is all. But nearer the stalls the stench is stronger and you realise it must be coming from the woman struggling to use the toilet, half-barricaded in her stall with the aid of her two violent green suitcases and travel pillow; she's trying to maintain her balance, the skin on her leg looks diseased: is that where the smell is coming from? Instinct says: leave her alone, she probably does not wish to be seen, open like that and vulnerable. Or maybe instinct is really simply saying: bad air, bad air. Close the door to the stall, find your balance again, try not to linger too long on the image of the woman struggling in the other stall, breathe through the mouth, not the nose. Open the door again, yes, she's still there. The sink, the sink is absolutely filthy. There is something moving, something alive in there: maggots.
It is hard to breathe.
The question: am I hallucinating?
Is this a strange migraine manifestation? No one else seems to notice her. But then I probably seem not to notice her as well.

For several days after there is an odd smell in the women's washroom, like cheap perfume covering over the stench.

Some sentences take and make time

Woraus hätte der unerschöpfliche Osten in ungeheuren Träumen, an denen, wie an riesigen Stickereien, Tausende mitgeträumt, woraus hätte er nicht Form geschaffen?



Merci à Hofmannsthal pour cette phrase.