The floor beneath my feet
smoother than ice
scratches the soles of my
shoes.
The air smells of paint.
It is clear the walls have not seen
any.
The room is mostly empty.
Tables are stacked on the edges
gallery lights shine down on
creamy blank walls.
There is an extension cord on
the ground and
art work in drafts
pinned to the wall with a
single prick.
Someone sits at a desk.
A guard.
Is it an accident, that the door is
open.
or
is this art?
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