In the hallway of our home I notice Egyptian art hanging on the walls. It’s been up so long, nearly since we moved in, we’d just about forgotten it. But, what to do since I realize it’s there now.
Tall hexagonal barriers (maybe like the shape of coffins?) contain a flow that fills up the hall like a tank. I can’t recall what substance it was, but I feel like it wasn’t a liquid, but an actual everyday thing.
A shack in the middle of a pasture that serves as both museum and archeological site. Spending my days in dusty careful study without electricity, I’m part of a small group of young people dedicated to its special care. A respectable older man, my teacher, has spent years of his life creating it.
By way of a simple legal trick, a younger female (possibly an estranged member of our group) gets the property line reassigned. We are forced to close up the building and shut the gate till the legal wranglings are sorted through. Knowing the site is in danger without care, I sneak back in one sunny afternoon. I just walk back in. No one stops me, no one seems to even notice though I walk down a gravel road in a broad field. I start to feel the people involved and obeying the law are acting downright foolish.
