During all my childhood illnesses the curtains beside my bed became a wonderful kingdom. Each curtain ring was adorned with a remarkable fabric crown in the shape of a bleached peacock's tail. The leftmost crown had been anointed with some kind of oilish stain and was therefore king. To his right was the prince (the queen had died of a respiratory illness), who was always having passionate love affairs with the beautiful princess of the curtain at my right. They always spoke of marriage but it was never agreed upon by either party. Such a shame, they would have been a remarkable couple and bridged the gap between the two windows rather dramatically. When I grew very ill with bronchitis and breathing was a painful and frightening chore, the faces on the curtains became little grey stones; although all of them were bleached perfectly white. They stood over me in perfect silence, blocking the sun with their eternal vigil. I grew to hate them for thinking I was dead. Far from it indeed! And who were they? Already dead for ages. The entire kingdom was an empire of silent mummies. This at last was revealed to me by the light shining from my lampshade. When I became better I tore down the curtains. My mother and father never bought new ones.
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