This is how it starts. You come home, stand at
the work top. It’s gone twelve. The house is calm,
you’re anything but.

What the woman next door shouted at the end of
the night made no sense. You said something, but
the others backed her up.

You’re annoyed. You can’t get it out of your
head. People are so sure of themselves. They love
the sound of their own voices. You pull open a
cupboard and reach up.

Fortunately there’s half a bag of Doritos.


The bag is soon empty. And you’re back to
fretting. You get into bed, hear the familiar
snoring next to you, but it doesn’t help.

Your monologue doesn’t stop. You search for
words to put them in their place, but your story
stays vague. You’re still the loner you always

Groups are great when there’s laughs to be had.
You love talking about us Frisians. But your
sympathy for the underdog is not by chance.

You’re one yourself, when things don’t go your way.


You’re home, but full of homeless feelings. You
hear the wind and all at once – maybe you need to
piss – you’re out of bed.

Without realising it you’ve calmed down a little.
People are so sure of themselves. For a moment
there’s a smirk on your face. And then you think
of something, a line, a few words.

It’s enough. It’s taking form. If you can hold on to
it, you’re on your way. You reach to the side and,
very old-fashioned, grab a pen.

That’s how it starts.



Translation: David Colmer