Curled up in a small green sofa that reminds him of green apples, he looks at a small table and three small chairs placed before him. They surely are meant for children. Small humans. What would they feel in front of such objects? He tries to think of a time when he himself was still young, still small, how he would look up to a big table and a big chair, the empty throne for a parent who’s not there. A mountain, an archaic sense of a mountain, covered with the barrenness of voices. He now wants to sit in one of the small chairs and place his head upon the low table, bending his long spine as if he was a serpent, squeeze his thick legs into the tiny space under the table to finally sleep so snugly and become part of the furniture. But he is too big for that, too old for that. He knows this and knowingly chooses not to despair over anything. At last, a boy comes and sits on the edge of the table. His mother tells him that he should not sit on a table, a table is not meant to be sat on, a table is not a chair. The boy listens to his mother and then gets up, goes away to play among other sofas, other chairs.