Inception

Inside a room full of people, all lips are sealed, the hands restlessly tapping keys to establish a fragment of work. One corner has a window half-covered, the midday light coming in as if echoing a boy who said, I want to work in a spaceship. He munched the chocolate bar and craved for more lego blocks, seeing a new set of wings and some planetary labs. But you can be a doctor, the mother said, holding a pen and staring at the calculator. Or a lawyer, she added, smiling at her reflection on the psychedelic screen. Outside the house, on the surface of a frame, a man wanders in the streets, hunting for words to be sewn. He stops by an edifice and sees one window half-covered, laughing and thinking about a room of silly people. The park is bare and full of umbrellas. He sees words on a bench and picks them. Sees them pasted on the posts and unpasted them. There are some on the trash bin, the pavement, the roads.