I ask, what didn't fit with the title, which overall doesn't fit. You say, it's too pathetic, everything. And, it is not anymore, as at the beginning (Capt 1, 2,3) naughty, ironic, light and sarcastic. The protagonist's voice can no longer sound the same, do you understand? I could pour tears of tears over this turn, But this ease no longer exists in this voice, This hopping, Frech, Being snotty. This protagonist, the boy, Was like that, from the heart, it was like that; without responsibility, free and unscrupulous, But the old one, It can no longer simulate elegant ease, That is because of it, that the words of the old ones weigh heavily, Because they have grown into their meat, These words, And because somewhere the distorted passion for the life that has not been achieved,. I could pour tears of tears about this serious, hopeless thing, that she seriously mashed me, Where I swore, never become serious or sentimental in my tone. Then remain better aggressive and biting. But I can no longer fulfill the good taste, The joke, Distribution of reason, I lost and I am now more of the “Sturm and urban” arrived, The Morra in a Lenz and Isabella. It is, Because I do that, at least the second part, do not write down from life, but from death. His presence led to this transformation, Because the view of a life, that slipped away, The memory is, that has two eyes in mind (death in one, in the other life), Three eyes even (death and life in life!), This view is usually a heavier. To be there, Something to lose, to feel, to become even the one forever excluded, to recognize, that nobody can understand that, The sentimental shine in the eyes of old people from old people, The severity and the derivation of your words. If you do not know this dimension of death, and did not experience the vulnerability of the body, and, Then you can only feel this pathos exotic or maybe old -fashioned (because letters from the consciousness of a death, Death itself is about the antiquated in today's world). I can not, to you, write, Like back then, write, As at the beginning of existence, When I thought, My word is the only one in the world, My voice a little roller, which moves through everything else, To, To be heard first at the top. You don't want a drama, no pain, Because that is not for sale. Because something like that. And because in pleasure in a pleased language, the pain is brought into the distance and transformed into its new expression by the distance. If this work remains an anachronism.