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August 2015

The ball

The ball hits the water. Little drops ascend into the air, while the ball kissed the ground and bend to return.

At first there was the plastic box. I opened the window and watched the plastic shatter on the ground into a thousand pieces revealing nothing, briefly stuck in mid-air before coming to rest on the concrete. The books followed, their pages fluttering in the wind. For a moment I see them in my hand, I feel the grass. The water is soaking through them fast, rendering its knowledge forever useless. I take a special delight in this. I feel the necessity of my destruction, the elevation through rain and brute force. I imagine the keys on my keyboard forming one last sentence before they die. A last call to the rest of its contents, which already stopped breathing.

It doesn’t take much and I pick up the last bag. The ball is just a coincidence, a forgotten memory surfacing.… [...]


Ich betrachte gerade auf einem rasierten Hinterkopf, die Haare wachsen schon wieder, Halbglatze erkennbar, unten fast am Nacken ist die Haut gereizt, Pickel vom Rasieren.

Zwei sind weiß vom Eiter.

Ich schaue, und schaue, und alles fließt durch mich hindurch.

Ich bleibe still. Eine Bewegung und es wird weh tun.


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