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In his head it was always autumn. His legs were tired from walking through the fields looking for beautiful images he could hang on his wall. He did not need a camera. He was sure that the right landscape would automatically fill the empty space between the window and the cupboard.

Perhaps right outside the window love was spreading its wings, waiting for breadcrumbs to fall from the sky, but when he looked out he merely kept cursing the bird droppings on his window sill.

At night he was eagerly waiting for the sound of the rain, it sounded like a mistress gently trying to get in. Happily he lay there wondering if he would let anyone in if it came to it, but of course it never did.

When he saw the moon he thought about whether it was a hole in the sky or if the sky itself was a hole. He was certain it was the latter, after all space is almost empty, it is a probability, a distance between fugitives. But if it is like that, everything is really a hole, or many holes, and existence is an anomaly.

Some days he certainly felt like nothing really existed, but that was only when he looked into his flat from outside and could not see himself sitting in the armchair as expected. Maybe he would have felt sorry for the lonely man in an old cardigan. But since he was not there, he must have escaped into the crispy morning, lucky man.

He touched the glass and tapped cautiously, resisting the urge to flee the scene. He did this every morning, but no-one ever came, except the police turned up once. He had some trouble convincing them he really lived there. When he explained that he was only trying to see himself, the policemen looked at each other and walked away. They were full of holes too, in fact the whole world was a big Emmental cheese.

Words floated around him like planets or plankton. In his own way he must have been happy, perhaps even happier than most. Now nobody sees him anymore in or outside his house. The holes have finally taken over.