4
On the following day, the words are boring and things are grubby. There’s nothing you can do about it, even if you make new things. Their grubbiness is predetermined, like the boredom of words.
The washing machine in a village home is a bucket, some foul-smelling household soap and raw, red human hands. It’s a machine with three components. It makes dirty clothes less dirty but more crumpled. And that’s OK. But there is no machine which can return words, boring from day one, back to their primeval state. There is neither bucket nor household soap for words, only hands – to cover your mouth before it’s too late.
The whole of the terrace facing the police station with its spyglass was now festooned with sails of shirts and sheets. The wind gave them a thorough shaking, till the window p
