We are waiting for something to happen. It has been weeks. What will be the endpoint of this struggle? There is no point in asking. Not now.
Everywhere becomes a museum, eventually. We should know, we live in one. Grown out of the craters of the past.
There is a natural cycle. The museums are unhoused too, in turn, by new ideologies, new ideas. We watch and wait.
How long is the cycle?
Our theory is that the cycle is as long as it takes for everyone to forget, for everyone to imagine they’re starting afresh.
Fourteen days? Thirty years?
Times change so slowly.
They would shiver if they thought about it. In February, when the squares are full and the bridges heave with sighs, they want freedom, no less.
Have you visited there on holiday? asks a colleague.
They know they deserve a break. Is this just their week in the sun? How long before we know?
Autumn is too long. It is immediate change they want. Crowds touching the city of the dead, North Africa. A distant call to prayer. Soldiers in tanks shake hands with locals waiting, waiting. They call it ‘unrest’. The unrest of years.