Raven! I'm in the closet. Between boxes of semi-packaged, I grope for the lost place:
and grab ice floes. The night is opaque, and through the long the thunder falls. They fall over each other through this
Longer like rumbling avalanches, they vomit with me for patient hours. I crawl around and look for the door, but my sense of touch is blind, I bump into the corners, gather me a hood of dust. A downpour is falling from Langeher and thunder is rumbling, they are off the radar. What should I do, Raven? For the first time in my life of forty-seven years I'm just a broom. I am, Raven: no longer at home in any heart with a lovely association, I am extinct from a single heartfelt remembrance, except that of the mother, and in their memory I cannot be right without pain, Raven! What happened? That I'm my home, that I carried inside me or at least on me, retired, that I, born rich, been a rich kid, been rich and naughty teen, rich in me, because I carried my home within me …. have lost!? In what patience I was safe! Raven! i lived like you, relatively free, albeit without wings, quite difficult, but I was still at home in some strange convolution of the brain, I was still remembered, of a, at least loved, of a. And now I'm a broom, landed in the closet, haha, Raven. It's me, and, but: a matter of oblivion. Not in anybodys compassion or mind, how extraordinary. Please, by circumstance or coincidence, but Raven: I see this back of an environment turned away from me so distorted, so surreal! I'll come back sometime and free myself from this closet? Nevermore. I suddenly will, like a miracle, wake up again in my own house, in the house, that borders on others? Nevermore. Will I recognize reality again or is this derangement now the last kind of dwelling, which I'm still having trouble with, because everything is foreign to me, my city sunk, this summer disguised as autumn …. Raven: it was long ago. Although the signs, that I had a life, Friends and even joy have not yet been completely wiped away from me, the broom. There are still signs, leftover small, who remember, but in the present I am no more, I can no longer be remembered, i am worthless, strictly speaking worthless for the first time, because not desired, not needed, not remembered, not as me, I am: really and truly superfluous …. and at the same time it all seems so surreal to me, so distorted. I'm losing ground, as a matter of fact! The physical ordeal has shredded my brain, my memory, my sense of time. My sense of reality. I feel like Lenz, as he goes to the mountains, like Joseph K., who is slowly but surely swallowed up by a nightmare, in which he no longer recognized reality, and like Anna Andreyevna when she started, to lisp softly to himself with his eyes closed….