Thanks, Mr. Shroom!

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When I woke up I felt frustrated for several reasons.

  • The newspaper had sent me a reply with the words “it’s very nice, but…”, and the part that came after that meant that I would have to basically rewrite the thing.
  • I would have to cover a lot of distance (about 110km) within just four walking days if I wanted to make it to the border with Georgia in time before my visa ran out.
  • My health wasn’t totally in order. There was a certain underlying weakness, something like a cold that had not quite come out, yet.
  • Someone had taken one of my pink plastic chairs from the Caboose and then left it somewhere else, and it had taken me a while to find it.

I was angry at the thief of chairs, especially since every single room had a little niche where one could sit down on a pillow:


So I sat down and rewrote my article. Then I took a shower, but before I did, I noticed that there was a mushroom growing in the door. An actual fucking mushroom:

Mr. Shroom

And for some reason this brought my happiness back.

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