--Index--
Pictures of what was technically mine but somehow never at all. Would love to show it, but should let the sleeping dogs lie.
Vase that I had sculpted fell from the shelf and broke.
He knocked on the door, entered my apartment and pulled out two books from behind his back. He handed them to me. They were pink with a hint of purple. The spines were firm, but the surfaces were covered with some kind of
foam that makes books soft and memorizes the marks of fingernails digging into it. I might have wanted to try that out, but I didn't. The book covers were decorated with red
letters and scribbles. I examined them when suddenly, they fell out of my hand and landed on the floor at my feet. I realized that I had only been looking at the backside of the books
the whole time. There they were now, and the front would remain hidden from me.
The Old Man didn't move. For a moment, we both stood there as if rooted to the spot. My gaze wandered from my feet to the books, over his body and up to his face. Then I looked
him in the eye and he did too. Everything went grey and blurry. He took my hand and dragged me to the sofa. It was dark leather. He sat down and I sat next to
him. He didn't let go of my hand, but I couldn't feel his touch, I could only see it. I didn't feel the kiss he placed on my lips either. I couldn't really see his
face because I had my eyes closed; it was as if I was standing right in front of the both of us, just watching as an outsider.
Another knock at the door. The man fled and The Devil entered. I had no time to destroy the books. He asked about them, and when I didn't answer him, he came close. I didn't want that.
He grabbed me; I asked him why he would follow me of all people, and he said he always seeks out the ones his target has dreamt of most recently.
And two more from the past few weeks:
I had a heavy and very painful sunburn. And:
One day, I was taking a walk around Frankfurt with J. In the evening, we went to Offenbach and walked around there as well. It was dark. He suddenly turned around in the middle of the street, his face
covered in tears. He smiled at me and said I am so happy that I didn't move to Frankfurt. Offenbach is so beautiful.
Are memories turned into fiction any less real?
Is reality based in memory nothing but fiction?
M. bought me extensions. A kind gesture, but they were of poor quality and not nearly enough.