July 20, 2006

The cleaning lady was busy dusting the inside of Paul Puncher’s Railway Station, opening and closing the blinds with swift assurance. We stood on the sidewalk, taking photos of the proceedings, vaguely fascinated by her movements inside the building.

When she saw us and closed the blinds, we were heartbroken.

“Damn, we need someone else in the frame,” Martin said.

I sacrificed myself for art, and jumped up on the window ledge to rub my ass all over glass. It was great.