It's three thirteen. And instead of sleeping and dreaming I'm still up, sitting at my desk, wondering. It's another one of those nights. Every now and then I hear a car pass by my window, and every now and then I hear a hauling sirene, cutting and slicing and splitting the quiet silence of the night into little fragments of disturbance. Slowly but surely I'm getting sick of this window, sick of this room, and sick of this flat.
One of the Indian girls has moved, back to India, thank god, which leaves me with three other flatmates. The other Indian girl is moving out as well, this weekend, can't wait, and a new member will move in after her. Things will change, at least that's what I hope. The kitchen is our communal space, although at the moment not so much that I want to spend any more time there than is absolutely necessary. Four minutes max.
The time that it takes to heat up something in the microwave. Microwaved food, ready-to-eat salads, composed or thrown together, that's as good as it gets. I honestly can't remember the last time that I bought fresh vegetables, fresh meat, the last time that I cut a paprika, sliced a carrot or split an onion. The other day I had a few tangerines and I remember thinking that was a quite healthy day. Things really have to change.
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