It’s a third day of strike that is held one block away from my house. Every morning I wake up to hear car horns and whistles creating a constant march rhythm that stops only in the end of the day. I wait for a miracle, for someone to agree with somebody on something.
If another miracle happens I will welcome it with my widely open arms. If a distant, unknown relative suddenly dies and leaves me a dilapidated, crumbling-down grand mansion in the countryside I will move in there right away.
I will put aluminum basins everywhere to gather the rain water leaking through the rotten roof.
I will run with an old dirty shoe in my hand hunting for enormous cockroaches.
I will grab millions of garden dry leaves into the huge piles and burn them till the sky turns black with the smoke.
I will sit there, on the worn-out sofa in front of the colorless threadbare carpet, drinking tea from a broken cup, eating mouldy cookies at the dusty table. And I will do it in miraculous silence, hearing only the birds singing their innocent and joyful songs.
Oh, I’m waiting for a miracle, for a miracle to come.