I’m in a strange house with strange rooms oddly juxtaposed.
Doors are where they shouldn’t be; some open onto walls.
I ask the carpenter why this is so.
Muscular and old, he answers with a smile.
Now we’re outside, walking through an old industrial area.
I see trucks; workmen; the smudged rear windows of warehouses.
The carpenter is no longer a carpenter.
His work apron is gone.
Now he’s a madman with twinkling eyes.
Who knows what he knows.