I am a winter rider on a glass plate. As thin as paper, crackling like pond ice.
who would have thought, that we will break out of our view and kill ourselves
a perspective from inside and outside. There remains a hole, through which the wind whistles.
Reminds me of our fragility, yours and mine, and that we ourselves were the ruffians,
who struck, although we considered ourselves to be oh so delicate and delicate in dealing with one another.
But now there will be a new outlook. Fort, der heisse Hauch, the old discs
shod with a future from within, with everyday problems in the sixties, Kissing in their seventies and
a topical bubble bath. The strength of these disks was shaken, they got thinner–
—can melt glass? Can it get smaller?, Just like you and I got smaller, sag?-
Protected from the outside against the cold and inside those protect from themselves, must this
Glass, the new. So that they don't smash their outlook and perspectives to pieces,
with a touch of fragility.
Lots of secrets, that play behind closed windows, will never
ventilated. Dann gibt es resolute Arme, that unlock the two sashes of a window,
that a passerby sees everything, what happens inside. I was such an open secret.
Every summer. And long before it was called, our windows are no longer safe and
could us, you and me, no longer warm.
(Brügg, 12.12.20)