Yesterday night, while I was walking the forlorn streets, a lust for a substantial dinner struck me right out of nowhere. Accordingly I directed my steps towards a particular joint, ’cause I knew that they serve quite large steaks there—or so I thought. I entered the place, occupied a table, ordered a steak and a beer, one more beer later on, and felt myself to be perfectly at ease and somehow content. While digesting the first beer, simultaneously waiting for the slab of beef to arrive, I reflected on the real reason why I came to this very restaurant. The steak, all right, but I know a heap of places where they offer similar items, and the way to them wouldn’t have been farther either. After a while of reflection I came close to accepting that there was no special reason, or that it was buried deep down in the unconscious layers, unfathomable, not retrievable. But even when you are thinking about matters of such profoundness your gaze wanders around. So did mine. And then I saw the ceiling: “But very quickly, ↑Brazil changes to a surreal experience, which shoes converted to hats, ventilation pipes dominating every roomscape, and massive expansive buildings without ground floors. Ventilation pipes are Gilliam’s symbol for technology run rampant.” Somehow I felt quite comfortable beneath that century-old art nouveau stucco beautifully complimented by industrial ventilation pipes, the latter being at least 50 years of age themselves. Sfam, you can file that under ↑cyberpunked living ;-)