A man comes home at a time of day he’s never been there before. A time when the light hits it differently, when the humming of the fridge is the only audible sound. For a moment it seems to him like he has walked into the house of a stranger, empty and silent at a desolate mid-day hour. All of a sudden can see fabulous and forgotten things. Dust particles swirling around in a white ray of light. His wife asleep in their bed, her breath rising and falling under the design magazine that rests on her chest. An old price tag glued to the underside of the table. A man comes home like a tourist and observes anew those things that make up his life. The parking lot, the stairs, the full mailboxes. A man comes home and walks into his life at a time he’s never been inside it, observing it with the eyes of the child he once was. And, once again, it is filled with mystery and magical hideouts. The corridors, the passageways, the boiler rooms. A man stands by and observes his own life from the outside. But is this life still truly his own?
