I.
time, to bite into a hard licorice. It is the thirty-first. The rain drips onto the roof of the empty pool like thousands of tiny needles. It is quiet and quiet in the house, but I hear noises. Rattata. Ea bit like gunfire, eternal return. Dann the laughter of two voices, dark. Louis is here. They're hunting something, racing or gaming. Lately sometimes I'm not sure, I really hear that, what i hear. It always rains on Christmas? Or is this tranige prevailing?, Rusty yellow skies just in my imagination? It was like that last Christmas, They showed these coffins there. That means no, those were the second to last. The last few they showed these trenches.
And now they're still there. I see it with a few mouse clicks. Since I arrived here, I check out these media. My Asus seems somehow lit. This works from my Asus just a little bit of heat, hier in Sickhouse. I call it that. Not that, because they are all sick here. Or because they are barrier-free, black concrete studios sour. At least those, who can be employed full-time during the day, over at the home, do not do it. There is no bus service to this place, he's at the bottom of the world.
Now I'm ashamed of my illness, for all the rest, who I still am. That's how it is. This is what happened inside me. Nothing else. So, how it happens out there. Lying there just bores me. I pinpoint some kind of stress, what the heck, Where. And google words and terms. Words like the word: Lack of relationship. words, like the word: Front. (On the one hand, front can be this bad weather, that pushes heavy air masses into each other. Or it's this gray area, where two face each other.
Now, for example, two are standing by the river, I just saw it. On one side there are some, on the other side the others. And so there they are, because a river has two banks. Said succinctly. If I ever had a kind of liaison with the language, then it has now become brittle. A bit like unsweetened tea, that you stir for too long. Not this in the first place, since Louis stopped talking to me. Since there are no more eyes, that I can look into. That started with Pinson. Is, who liked me better, with your mouth closed. My longing for language awoke, that flows: after a larger river. A common one.
So I listen and hear. And put the hearing protection deeper into the labyrinth passages. If only there wasn't this fear. At the beginning there was such silence here, as if Sickhouse were uninhabited. In bed looking for a safe place. And then silence. And then waiting. Every now and then a betaxi taxi, which throws a long stream of water beneath itself. That was also in an Old Year's week. Mowgli always wanted to go to the roof. I followed him to the elevator, held the batch of keys to the screen of the door. Batch the second key to the second door. Gears, long and black, Decorated with light strips for the wheelchairs, like in the cinema. And a railing on the roof, knee high, hastily set up. So that no physically disabled person falls, two meters deep.
Project goals for the final part: short sentences, short paragraphs. Proceed almost economically, don't lose myself in treatises again. Regain the essence in volatility. Never bother me again. Sentences and statements, that make me stumble: to brush. Keeping the sentimentality of the autumn soul in check. Maybe, if possible, work with repetitions. Despite the flow: Avoid shallowness. Shallowness of emotions, that come about through crazy whims. Detach the text from the moods.
Is it possible to write a conclusion?, when the climax of the story has already passed? Is it possible, to describe the insignificance, into which this autobiographical fiction bleeds out at the end?