One Monday morning I had to go someplace. At 10 a.m. it was black outside (not dark, BLACK). The wind was strong and extremely uncomfortable. It was raining or snowing, definitely something in between. It was absolutely horrible. But typical, it was January after all. After walking for what seemed to be hours, I saw something. Something different, it didnít quite belong where it was. It seemed like an uninvited guest, different from everything around and, well, not the same "scene". Through a window front I saw a white room, illuminated and whatís more, flowers! Vivid, colourful and large! Immediately I realized, I wanted to live there. I decided that my previous appointment wasnít so important after all so I went inside.  And here I was. Days and weeks went by. Sometimes there were visitors, though I doubt they came for me. In fact they didnít seem to see me at all. They came, as I had, to see the flowers, but left sooner or later. It was fascinating to observe these people. Some of them left quickly, it seemed they didnít agree with what they saw. This intrigued me. After a couple of days I heard a comment from one of them. One said, that this was at the end of the day quite banal.  "Whatís new about flowers painted with oil on canvas?" I was startled, for I hadnít thought about it that way. With horror I thought of the numerous "flower pictures" and "still-lives" I had seen in my life and always considered so boring. What had happened that day I wandered in? Had I been so depressed not to notice it was a trap? I was paralysed. What had I done? Had I been living with mediocre still- lifeís all this time?  Hours later I decided I needed to know more and not to let this one comment put me out of balance. I looked at the flowers again. They really were big, huge actually. What flowers were they? I hadnít given it any thought. I only knew roses and tulips and the kinds you get in the store for a friendís birthday. These were definitely not of that sort, but familiar, I had seen them a hundred times before outside this room. During the next days I started to observe the visitors a bit more. Some of them had to know what flowers we were looking at. This time I paid more attention to the people who stayed longer. I had paid little attention to them before, since I thought we had the same understanding. But as I found out this was not the case. The people who liked the pictures did not necessarily care to reflect much on them. Many were just shouting out "how marvellous", "look how beautiful they are " which made me worry again. At last I overheard one person saying something that struck me. Evidently, all the flowers were weed! They were actually weed that people took out of their gardens in the summertime, poisoned them in order to plant other flowers there, probably roses and tulips ect. I was bewildered, if they were weed, why the exclamations " marvellous" and "beautiful"? What was all this about? At this point I almost regretted ever to have come here. Time went by and I lost myself in deep thinking about everything I had heard and experienced since I lived here. These paintings were in any case curious. Everything seemed to be  "wrong" about them. They were of flowers. Not even "real" flowers, but weed! Still, they were beautiful; some found them too beautiful, banal. They were shown at a time when they had no competition and where everything around them was plain ugly. They were very traditional on their canvases painted with oil and yet, were very aggressive. In their banality they were contradictory. I realized, this was the reason for my coming and staying here. At that moment we became friends. Time passed and one day all the paintings were gone. It was Monday morning just after 10 a.m. I thought it was about time to get going.