Berlin. Angel basin
As on push of a button the language wraps around. On German. Around eight I run around the corner to my house lady doctor. I need my third Tetanus syringe. Afterwards I would have for ten years peace. She said one year ago. And admonished itself to remember. Time becomes ever more relatively. And the thoughts ever more clearly. Wolfgang sleeps approximately so long, how he sat in the airplane. Yesterday. Or the day before yesterday. I do not know, from where the time comes. Around twelve I run to the Lausitzer place to my hairdresser. I want the color on my head loose will. Red remainders still from Japan. She does not understand. And I may not explain anything. At the angel basin one gebaggert. As in the first winter. When was that? After we had pulled into the east of the city. Into the shade of the wall. It at that time already any longer did not give. Time does not know borders. The Wasserbecken is now ausgebaggert. In December. The bank finally (after like many years?) fastens properly. Crushed stone up-poured. Reed cut off. The swans became white and away-flew. Also the herons looked for that width. The winter comes. With giant steps. The how many in this year? Around one I run to the beautiful flax route. Over the Kottbusser gate. As by an enormous waiting-room. A main station. In the no man's land. Where the driving directions were waived. And at home abolished. Wolfgang drives to his father, who does not recognize him any longer. On evening we sit in our kitchen and drink wine. That ore gel on the bell tower of the ruin of the Michaelskirche shines now at the night. Irgendwoher flows money. Over the former death strip the time is nailed to the sky.
