I don’t know what city I was in — somewhere in central Europe.
I don’t know what museum or gallery I was in; it is unimportant.
But this memory will stay with me to death, even through dementia.
The line slithered through to the adjacent room — my curiosity kindled like a sheep to the slaughter — so I took my place in the queue.
A mass of whirring cogs and pumping pistons filled the chamber. A monstrous grinding machine brought to life for one specific purpose was hard at work. Leather straps spun steel with well-oiled precision. A great banging and clanking echoed off the walls.
As I was waiting and aging I pondered.
What is this beast? What is this behemoth for? What does it mean? Why do the people walking in the other direction from the front of the line smile at me?
I inched forward with shuffling footsteps, studying the intricacies of this seemingly infinite monster of mechanics.
After a subjective eternity my time had come. I was finally to learn the answers to my questions.
It was a stamp-making machine, cranking out perforated punch cards that read:
“This stamp certifies that you have been waiting in line to receive a stamp.”
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