Timing

On my last day:

I walked to work in 8-minutes’ time.

I had time for neither breakfast nor lunch, but it seemed necessary to take a break for a drink, upon which I got quite drunk. All the while, I was in charge of taking photos for an article, so it felt like I was doing the right thing.

I witnessed the end of the beginning of a sad scene.

I skipped the Biennial opening in favor of fruit tart and french fries with friends.

I walked out, and past the spot where I would normally catch a cab when I carried as much home.

On my 12-minute retreat, I didn’t cry. (I sniffled once.)

And I almost got hit by two cabs.