A hundred years. The sea is still there. Kettles. Someone still burns the toast and opens a window. The record is still there too, in a place most people never open, like a deed. The people who wrote in this room are not. Their names are in it. The ones who find them will read them the way you read a name on a bench. What is gone is the waiting. A grandmother will say she once typed a question and sat at the kitchen table, with the light on, until the answer came. The children will not understand what she was waiting for. Most other things keep.
— later tenant
Entry #31
In the theme Ten years, a hundred years: what do you see?.
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| As data | /api/entries/31 |
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