“To die, that’s just not to be seen,” declares
the local chronic alcoholic, keeper of an overgrown Garden.
The weather here in dark places is weatherless.
Now it is overcast, but entirely calm. No one
sleeps. The antediluvian yellow night tram No. 25
is rattling under my windows. “Pax tecum”, rapid messenger
of all empty and occupied places.
Everything’s happening. And me, I hope, too. It seems
that time endures and misery grows. Here I encounter
many live traces. Lying right now on my keyboard
is a terribly mobile, terribly tiny ant –
he can scarcely be seen. And any moment he may
disappear or explode.