At some popular exhibition in town. The uniformed girl, who had been seen getting off the bus at the corner in a terrible rush (several times), was on her high chair reading. Now ambling by the same work of art. Is it really? Yes. No. Drowning into its details. Brushing by the surface of its general idea. It’s not worth much. It’s a masterpiece. From two to five pm in Room B. Then Room D for three hours. Different works; different ideas – explicative panels available in five languages. “Excuse me, could I…?” “Please.” “Do you know where the…?” End of the hall, to the left – she pointed at it, the WC door, white in the white wall, could’ve looked like a work of art itself, if only he had signed it. The next days she was still rushing off the bus, running late.