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.

I cross the field of my own self and take one last look. The ball gains speed, I wish I wouldn’t look back.

Mein Wahn kann ohne Sinn keine Entgrenzung erfahren.

Minutentakte des Zweifels, durchbrochen durch Bilderfetzen, bar jeden Kontexts:
Genies ohne Substanz, erstarrt in bedeutungsvollem Lachen.

Ich bin nicht,

längst aufgelöst

zwischen diesen Körpern.

Mein Einfluss,

wenn je vorhanden,

ist vollkommen.

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