In that town there was a room I kept circling. It was near my girlfriend’s. She didn’t know I sometimes climbed those stairs. On the wall there were photos from before the war. I talked to an old Frisian writer about it. He said, “I know that room. I should actually go in there, but I’m afraid I’ve left it too late.” He was right. He died during the Games. The room is still there—up the steps and left down the corridor. Everyone knows more or less what’s inside.
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