A Dream About a Tramcar
I was riding in a tramcar and looking out of a window at the morning people. You can really differentiate early morning people from those who roam around the city during the day. Especially by their faces—unhappy and as gray as the cobblestone pavement.
Next to me a ticket-controller stopped and asked if I had a ticket. I nodded without taking my gaze from the window, but he continued to stand next to me.
“Are you sure you’ve got a ticket?”
I measured him with my gaze. He was a small heavy-set man, who reached just up to my chin, with a great big round head and protruding ears. On his ticket-controller’s coat you could see countless bright fibers, threads, and hairs, as well as a kind of down, as though he had been rolling around all over somewhere at a textile
