To close you in that golden cage, I wouldn’t. Many at times have suggested what a golden cage is and this one is pretty accurately. Firstly because it is a cage. To ghetto us from them and them from us. And secondly because it is golden. Golden taps, golden doors frames, mirros, golden lamps, golden handles. I walk in the solemn rooms and I hear the echo of my breath. First you will walk in a filthy room, torn carpets, coffee-like stains in the walls, old scrapped marble, to be fingerprinted and photographed. They say something, you don’t get it, right-left-thumbs, tapping on the camera, you look. Flash! No smile. You don’t give it and they don’t expect it. Cross the borders. McDonalds.
I open the cupboards one by one. Five packages of cereals, all at 375grams. One box of chocolates, at convenient sizes of 30 grams. One box of sneakers. One box of kitkat. Coffee, tea bags, instant cappuccino. Two kilos of sugar. Six tins of baked beans. Six tins of tuna. Two kilos of Danish cookies, six boxes of springles chips, two paprika, onion-sour cream, cheese. Fridge. Three liters of milk, five jars of marmalade, two loafs of fake toast bread, two packages of fake cheddar cheese slices, four yoghurts, four liters of juice. Six packages of instant noodles. Soft drinks. Fruit bowl on a small table in a vastly barren echoing kitchen. Water bottles. Steel door.
Door after door, sealed with more steel doors, I enter the panic room on the first floor to check the supplies. Tins, rope. Turn your mobile in silent mode if they come. The possibility of something happening during this period is minimal; we are all friends currently. Airco. Everywhere.