Ah, the work of a curator. Lonely nights (is it night when you're in space? maybe.) in a dim corner illuminated by a lamp, equally lonely as the curator. Writing, but for what? WHO READS BOOKS NOWADAYS?! Perhaps it is the fate of the job to stay lonely. Or perhaps, I'm just an idiot who doesn't know what he's doing. Yes, we're writing from my perspective know. Maybe this isn't a book as if it is a diary. Then, what happened today? Nothing. Nothing ever happens. Such is the work of a curator. The life of a curator. What the hell is a curator anyway? No one knows, and no one asks. A short sad tale about a sad curator who is sad. And lonely. But sad too