Postkort fra 2046: Minute Eleven
Iben,
Big news: I got paid. Actual money, from a hospital.
They needed forty minutes of "clinically calm ambience" for the new ward on Amager — the walls do acoustic masking now, they tune the room to whoever is lying in it. Very serious. Very beige. The brief said "avoid emotional content," which is the funniest sentence anyone has ever handed me.
So here is what I did. Somewhere in minute eleven, under the soft grey hush, I buried the sound of Vesterbrogade at half past two on a Saturday. Very low. Bikes, a man losing an argument in two languages, the tattoo guy's compressor downstairs. You will not hear it. You will only feel that the room is not empty.
Nobody has noticed. The approval came back "excellent, restful." Iben, I have smuggled a whole street into a hospital and been complimented for it.
It's 28 degrees up here and the window is open and I am eating cold noodles out of the pan. The blue coat from the Istedgade bins has a hole in it now. I'm keeping it anyway.
Come home in September. I'll play you minute eleven.
N
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