Es ist komisch wie ich immer weniger werde. Bald ist nichts mehr übrig. Dabei verschwindet nichts wirklich. Und doch ist mein Arm schon leer wie ein Fernrohr.
It’s funny how I’m less and less. Soon there is nothing left. But nothing really disappears. And yet, my arm is already empty, like a telescope.
Wie ein Staubsauger rauschte das Geräusch des Flugzeuges über mir hinweg. Und wie ein Staubsauger saugte es an mir. Zog an dünnen Fäden Gefühle aus mir heraus. Meine Mutter würde es Sehnsucht nennen. Mein Vater Projektion.
Like a vacuum cleaner the sound of the aircraft swept over me. And like a vacuum cleaner it sucked on me , pulled in thin threads feelings out of me. My mother would call it nostalgia. My father projection.
He followed the grey wet street and collected faces. Arranged them like pearls on a necklace. The air was humid and music by an empty band, that played their hearts out, echoed out of a shiny black pub. His head itched . The pub was empty apart from the band and a flat screen television on a wall showing a horizon.
Sunday evening in New Cross had just exhaled . Any hope that had touched the streets on Saturday night wearing high heels and sparkling eyes now took the bus home. A cumulus cloud towered high into the sky; added beauty to the scene almost like a mountain . The cloud brought rain. First hesitantly than like tears of an entire population. Summer rain, warm and soft. Thousand year old water. Water that had been people, had been blood or icebergs . Old clear water.
When I was a child animals seemed to be like humans.
Now humans seem to be like animals.