My father, who had passed away some time before, suddenly entered the room wearing a new suit. He appeared taller and younger, but I couldn’t tell for sure, for he paced back and forth, restless, as if he were full of plans. His tailored suit was of a light fabric in a style reminiscent of Nehru, minus the collar. The men in the room watched him with some puzzlement. Although they could never have known him, they seemed to blame me for him being my junior. We went out together and walked to the edge of the hill, where I told him that we had to tear down one of the houses because it obstructed the view. My father seemed to be trying very hard to absorb the new situation. He did not look me in the eye, but beyond me over my head. When I started towards the woods, he fell in behind. I thought about which path to take. I didn’t want us to pass mother’s grave, but I had forgotten where it was.

The office is nine feet high and contains black chairs. Faces blur in an office. There are many computers in an office. Mountaineers climbing the office are scalded at the coffee machine from time to time. All the people I know work in an office. You can even contact Siberia at an office. I’m waiting for someone to squeeze the sponge I carry in my chest—but will he come to my office? Offices don’t necessarily close at five. In the office, I think of poplar leaves, illuminated by headlights. There are women in offices. You know, the printers in offices don’t always work. I feel comfortable in the office when I let paperclips trickle from one hand into the other. I have been living in the land of offices for a long time.

-Translated by the author