Counting paving stones. by van.rikxoort.art

Rotterdam, Monday afternoon. The sky turns grey, as does the mood of our office clerk. He walks with his shoulders forward, as if still carrying the weight of that overflowing mailbox. His hands crammed deep into his pockets, because luckily he doesn't have to type in reports there. He looks like a dead man on a day's leave.

Behind him, skyscrapers rise like glass giants. They all look alike, just like the days at work. One wonders: has this guy that many wrinkles, or did he sleep under his coffee machine last night?

And then that green tie - the only colour in his grey existence. The bridges, the hustle and bustle, the skyline... it slips past him. Only that tie reminds him of where he comes from, though he doesn't feel it.

His feet tap the paving stones in a steady rhythm. Maybe he dreams of a life as an artist, or of a simple chip shop in Zuid.

A seagull screams above his head. "Yeah," he hums back, "shouldn't you be nicking fish at the Market Hall?" Even the birds here always have something to bitch about.

And so our clerk ploughs on, step by step over the paving stones of his city. He doesn't know it, but behind that jaded face lurks the soul of Rotterdam. Coarse, raw, and yet a bit blue.