Enter anywhere you like. Doors line trick walls, retracting roofs, fallaway floors. Aerial pads, underground tunnels—each in some state of readiness for guests.
The place is under perpetual construction, crowded and damp. Leaks drip from every seam, so bring galoshes, not dress shoes. No formal affairs here. And though it’s wet, you’ll still need extra water for the heat.
Why come at all? Many arrive tired, unsure they can continue out there. Stay as long as you like. Art and music are scattered everywhere: prayer cards, crayon drawings, kitsch beside relics.
Characters roam—escaped saints with haunted eyes and wild humor if you get them talking. Leave them alone, and they seem freshly returned from some dark night of the soul.
You’ll find huddled masses here, but also divas—ancient figures with jeweled hair and hand-stitched clothes—who survey the chaos and sigh. Couldn’t we sweep, add lights, host a proper feast now and then?
The real joy comes from otters, birds, and babies: downy hatchlings, tiny hands slapping water, the gleam of a pup riding its mother’s belly. Cats, too, offer wry humor and disdain for our grievances.
One wing belongs to Klee’s angels. Walter Benjamin mutters through his notes while others drift in and out—some long dead, some not yet born. Lists of names dissolve as fast as they’re written.
In a far corner, unnoticed creatures nap: a dingy unicorn, withered lion, small dragon, chimera. A harpy perches nearby, cracking bawdy jokes around an unlit cigar.
The gift shop is closed. The food court changes with mood and season. No ID, no admission fees, no security.
Resentments fester like gangrene, fur and hair matted in corners. I mean to clean, but it’s tiring—feeding all these guests who never leave.
