Olympiastadion Berlin, 1998
Shadow falls on the stairs, which border on the sky. The places, brown plastic benches, that work from afar, like jumping hurdles built in the air or rusty hairpins, they are evacuated. It's Sunday. There is a, two spectators, who sit in the stands, far apart, isolated small dots of color. A young man is reading. Two people with packed lunches are looking for a chair in the official gallery. Several people are on the edge of a gray-stone colossus, carelessly amazed. Muffled voices are swallowed up by the concrete. Someone is meditating. The stadium has a gigantic back on all sides. Hostility is somehow preserved inside. At the same time, the outside world seems completely pushed aside. Every now and then a couple of crows cast a shadowy corner in the sky. All in all, there is no wind at all. People sit in pairs in front of the plaque, huddled together. They too seem to be resting. This is my third time here, without knowing, Why. The longer I sit here, the more I have the impression, that I turn to stone.