Spookhall

 I have been seeing Spookhall for most of my life. Sometimes, if I get lost in my dream, I suddenly find myself in front of the entrance, and despite the immediate resentment I always end up in there. The Spookhall is not a place like any other. It is actually, a storage for an excess, an exceeding of utility, a gathering of objects imprisoning the sad fatality of material being. It is a storage, in fact, for medical and chemical goods, wastebags, washing liquids and first aid kits, cleaning towels and syntetic powders, hygiene products, sanitary pads, mops, brushes, buckets, shits, suffocating stocks of granola. It makes me feel sick. I want to grab the very first paper roll and stuff myself through my throat. Like I would do everything not to soak through mould of walls of the Spookhall, and what they are bearing for me in my nightmares. 

 There are always the same frosted windows with a blurry vision on disgusting plastic boxes filled with chemistry, and a clock which always stops at five. There is a sound coming from the inside, a monotone, overwhelming tune of a wind lost in a dark. In the town I grew up I heard once a sound like that, coming out of the old meat factory, bringing a choking smell of a slaughtered pig. This is how Spookhall is like.