Ich bin einsam und fühle mich schlecht. Die Welt um mich herum interessiert sich nicht für mich, und sie braucht mich auch nicht.
Interessen habe ich keine mehr. Ich komme gut ohne Musik aus. Ich höre gerne nichts, Stille. Und da, wo schwarzer Regen fällt, hat jemand Gülle abgestellt.
Alt werden. Anfangen zu stinken. Merken, daß man ein bißchen so wie Maxim Biller geworden ist: Immer schlecht gelaunt, jeden Tag und heute.
Aus dem Fenster schauen. Die Nachbarin sehen. Sie came back from shopping, hung with the 36 bags of Shaolin. No one helps. I of course not. Instead, I prefer to grab the rope, climb on the chair and do around the ceiling light.
whole sad am I, who have not lived, say goodbye to the life now. Since
calls the gentle voice of reason to me: income, you can survive anything.
I ask the reason, if I can have their phone number, then we can sometimes meet for coffee or something. The reason but declined with thanks. That was expected.
said I used to me always, thick girls need love. But not by me. Today I would probably not so condescending. But even the thickness cease.
I remain alone. Think of a nice girl from before. In the winter of our discontent, we wore five layers of clothing to each other. She looked still damn sexy. Run is nothing. Only I, flowing through the rain.
Memories are made of schoolgirl report. Germany, after pill before Palle. No fatal Bumsviren, nowhere. For this whole hedges of pubic hair. These were the seventies. Peter Frankenfeld leads through the program. It must have been an inconceivable besockte time.
remains the bottom line: A nice day in the tractor museum with old memories.
The chair tilts.
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