What’s it like being a statue in a garden shop? Is it fun or is it like being trapped in Sartre’s No Exit?
What’s it like?
What’s it like being a statue in a garden shop? Is it fun or is it like being trapped in Sartre’s No Exit?
To be a statue: I imagine that it feels and sounds like a crowded version of "No Exit" where you can speak, but cannot move. The statues loudly beg for escape to a quiet garden where the sound of moving water is an unspeakable luxury; not commerce.
The orchids, on the other hand, are basking. Their voices are irrelevant. Or are they?