It's all basically a world one can keep track of, one can see as far as one's sight allows, that is, differently in the case of each person, and some can see right through bodies, because there's nothing there that could interest them. How copiously this water spreads its wings, how generously proportioned is its space, how assiduously it has increased its biomass and the detritus, so that its need for oxygen has grown exponentially, it's got nothing else to do the livelong day, because it has already killed everything in itself. Is that not a nice symbol for this man here, who is facing fairly critical times, because he would like to digest himself and make himself disappear, and instead always has to be hunting and chasing himself in order to find out which of his hobbies could keep him alive a little longer? Which ones definitely won't, he already knows. And as if there had to be a last straw on top of everything else, now something dead has been added to all the lifelessness in the debris of his life, a daughter from a good home in the village (with a single mother), that's what I've been told at least, but it's not quite right, I think, a present time that was pretty as a picture, and then this human sausage plops into the water, just like that, without the least grace it may have possessed while still alive. The longer I look at this face, the more certain I am: The disappearance of this girl is no problem at all, because she's available reproduced so many times. She has made herself up to look like all the others, in the shop she even chose thick rubber mats as shoe soles, so that the adjoining legs look approx. four inches longer, and from tomorrow her face, which wanted to smile out of magazines, will instead be fixed to the masts a hundred times over. So wherever one looks, this girl exists so many times over that she has simultaneously gone and stayed here!, a whole photo wallpaper has been made out of the young woman. This sweet little mouse, as the poet says, exists so often, even if in another, foreign shape, nothing else has any room anymore between her and her pictures, which all: don't show her!, all photos, which had previously nodded to her, and were immediately cut out of a color magazine with the weapons of a woman, a small pair of scissors. No, these are, rather, weapons, which are such that woman (whoa!) doesn't even need them, there would be nothing for them to do. That's why one doesn't need to be in the pictures in person, one can also let oneself be represented there by other women; I've seen it myself, this nothingness, all the photos as if from the magazine and from the other magazine, I had the time to glance at it, that was enough for me, and I learned something from it. Down, into the water, always just down, and then not again: down. Once is enough. It works the first time, while the photos really always have a considerable effect each time we look at them, unless of course we were in them ourselves.

If it were up to him, the man would row out specially in the boat and there, where it's deep, further out, where the lake snacks on the tree shadows from the steep shore, heave his food parcel in its own snack pack into the water. But there are no oars in the boat, and one can't very well run around the village with a pair of replacement oars, what would that look like. Alone is the night, it always does everything alone, that's why no one offers to help it. The night is the night, that's its attitude. One sees nothing. No street lighting by the lake. No light during sex, that's lucky, because we haven't specially washed our feet, they're quite black between the toes. And the pedal boat, it has a key, even if not for an ignition, otherwise it would be a motor boat, we don't have one available. The man can't get far enough out on the water with his meat (his catch). Yet the killing of his prey cost him as little effort as a cigarette, the end of which burns one's fingers a little and which one quickly stubs out; we see, no, of course, we don't see, it's dark, you don't have any choice, you simply have to believe me, so look at an embrace, which for months has been usual between the two, in the car, in the front seats, while a cock which has been brought along for the purpose is already standing there upright and expectant. One hand stays on the steering wheel, one head is shoved under an armpit, nestles into that damp, cozy hollow, oh how deceptive, as if it wanted to hide away in a cupboard. Long, thick hair, generously heaped with tips from Brigitte on how to shine, but a nut-sized amount is sufficient, spreads out on an arm, a living mass, as one says, everything as usual, otherwise no one would have made the effort to prepare memories of it, and then to hang them out to dry on a TV screen or a poster where everyone can see them, models for everyone for the next time. Then one can do it oneself. There's no such thing. Yet another of those, who behave exactly the same as always, after having read several how-to books, about exactly how not to do it, better a smart short hairstyle, your hairdresser deserves that once a month, than an unkempt flowing mane!, so one of them will unfortunately do it nevertheless just as usual, in the hope of being acknowledged as a good, languishing, eager woman in love. But today she's in trouble, when really it's the man who should be: Does he have someone new? No, daddy, that's not allowed. He can't do that. The capacity to act will be taken out of her hands, since the young woman, Gabi's her name, to the accompaniment of laments, accusations and pleas and already precipitately giving herself up, without any address marked, or what is to happen to the body in the event of death (although one might be able to get something for oneself nevertheless, if one were smart and already donated one's corpse to pathology beforehand), pulls down a zip and takes out a cock, as so often now, it's been going on like this for many weeks. The skill is in doing it again and again, but differently each time. Someone who is easily bored would never manage it. Thanks, the pleasure's mine, says the penis, so now I have to pass into a stranger's hands again, I've hardly had time to get used to the previous pair, and my owner is also somewhat in need of a routine, I would say, run away if you ever catch sight of him in the distance! No one listens to me. I find it rather unpleasant. They always find me, feels a not very pitiable piece of meat in addition to some more pleasant feelings, which are now beginning, have your ticket ready and fall to your knees in front of the bouncer, please, on your knees now, this moment! Gabi's groping, often clumsy fingers are unerring, as if the country policeman's cock had a lighthouse beacon, or a flashing warning light, so that one can avoid it in time (no man is an island, he stands above everything, he is an airplane or at least in an airplane) and not grab it right away, without first pausing and thinking, or if thinking is at all desired, to think about the rubber for insulation purposes. And then perhaps at some point you produce a short circuit, well, you know where the country policeman lives, if you want to phone him there. Women. If this man happens to be somewhere else, they immediately become suspicious, because the country policeman has gone out and couldn't leave a single contact number. For example this house, in front of which he's standing once again, he would absolutely like to have it. And if he had to fight for it, with the clumsy and also somewhat too sensitive weapons of the flesh, then it can't be helped. Flesh. This house belongs to a woman. Its facade already has a skeptical expression when the country policeman enters. We certainly can't fool this house. This house is already made. In the house a commodity wants its eyelids to glitter and present itself with the eyelash flutter of a new striped awning. She has rubbed herself all over with something, the woman who lives here, but she didn't have to make the effort for the sake of this man. He overlooks everything that has no value, nor does he have to ask for patience or look for some peace and quiet, before someone comes up to him, on his own stairs, likewise made of the best, well-hung meat, that no longer longs for anything except to be released from its place of custody and to get away again. Then I would be, says the meat in its own voice, which we like to listen to, and its owner, to whom someone or other will also listen, then the two of them, the flesh and him, would at last be at one with themselves: alone. They, too.