February, 24

In the middle of the night I wake up, freezing cold am I and for half an hour I look out of the window into the deep night, where not a single star can be spotted. One hour and a hot bottle later, I am not that cold anymore and fall back asleep. Of a marriage I dream, taking place in a wasteland and unable I am to identify groom and bride. The sun rises golden as an ancient coin above the tree tops, high and higher. „Bon voyage“, sun I say and listen to the radio, where a film critic endlessly talks about a film he disliked, but I do not care anyway and as so often I wonder, why critics never seem to be quick, smart and surprising but rather dull while repeating the very same empty phrases. I turn the radio off and for long hours I sit at my desk, sometimes car doors are opened, a dog barks here and then and the birds are shirking and arguing with each other, the postman leans his bike against the fence and I pick up a parcel for the neighbors that never seem to be at home at all. The printer for whatever reason does not print. I talk gently to him. I pet his black housing if it would be a stubborn dog, I curse him and I tell him a horrible story of ending up in a recycling centre in very due course. The printer is not impressed at all and remains silent. I give the printer and myself a rest, cheese I buy, a few grapes, a hopefully ripe mango and a bottle of milk. Back on my desk I ignore the printer, just sometimes when getting up to grab a book from the shelve I murmur: „recycling centre“, after six hours of deep and stubborn silence, the printer finally gives in and out of the blue, twenty pages fall into my hands. Good choice, printer I say, but the printer has pride as well and reclines any comment. The sun is gone, with the neighbor I talk about her sister, who crammed a massive, black sideboard in an already narrow hallway. This will be a difficult thing to solve, but not today. Four plates, glasses and cutlery I place on the table, cheese and grapes are already there, the bread is in its basket, the mango is juicy and of a brilliant yellow is her flesh that shines as the sun in the morning, and sticky drips the juice from my fingers, while waiting for D., L. and K. I read a few pages in Peter Ackroyd’s book on the Thames, tired I am a bit and a message I am waiting for does not come and so I am relieved when the bell rings and D’s laughter sounds vividly and infectious through the staircase up to my door.

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