just wonging.

This white building. You sit there seven to seven. At the door. Guarding whatever populates the twenty floors, eight apartments each. The building is an awkward existence to start with. There are thousands of those who fulfill this very role of yours, sitting there in the name of  guarding, bare handed. High rises. People come people go, in and out, having absolutely no relations with each other but addressing each other in the awkward notion of neighbor, which until recent times has been horizontal rather than vertical concept in terms of spatial representation. Guarding you are. Vigilant, they require you to be. And you dutifully mark down what appears on those strangers' identity cards. Although if anything really happens, there is nothing much you can do. Say, if someone kills the entire family and then jumps off somewhere up there, you would not know a thing until you hear a big bang. As for who is a stranger, you must have a subjective conception, verified...

Post-dissertation frenzy. There's always so much to do before starting a new chapter, whatever that new chapter may be. In between mourning and celebrating, words remain neutral. Words evoke certain feelings, are constituted by certain conceptions or significations, and are subject to various interpretations, depending on specific purposes of the ones who interpret. But they remain neutral and impartial in their ontology, for they must, to fulfill their historic mission as words. And the above: previously unpublished; clearly wrote them a while back. But since it's almost a year since I last crossed Europe, maybe it's time to reminisce. Nowhere could I have imagined to have my life revolve around a cubicle one year later. And one should really finish what one started, so here goes. Day 7: In a small town on the German-Austrian border, where the longest castle in Europe situates, buildings remain the way they were centuries ago. One of the places in Germany that haven...