Driving Cadillacs in Our Dreams

In this empty, Bob Dylan’s music-filled room, the sound of doors being knocked drowns… My sharp ear manages to filtrate the irregular tact that interrupted swinging tune. Senses, now alerted, give me an ecstatic goosebumps, yet I decide to wait for the next characteristic course of action to take its place.

Humans and their patterns are easy to predict:

After a short pause interval, the sound of doors being knocked appeared for a second round. Stronger. Louder. More aggressively… Like a prostitute provoking her’s or his (no discrimination) correspondent to react.

I grin as I still manage to read the ifs and buts of the typical behaviour ahead of time. But who couldn’t? We are one way or another the children of society where habits are expected and normal almost as inherited vice. I wonder If the person behind those doors wouldn’t knock twice with much more ‘passion’ would I consider him or her abnormal?

I slowly get up from the ground and before I reach for the handle I pause.

A nerve-wracking wait for, currently, a stranger behind the wall.

Another knock materialises.

And before finally opening the old wooden doors I smile victoriously.

Acts of philanthropy only flushes my pride along the driveshaft. So I just continue to drive  Cadillacs, even if it’s only in secret.

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