Please don't go! Don't go! Something like that crossed my mind as soon as you arrived. I would otherwise have been dismissed too humiliatingly, if you had gone away. Without giving me the reason. Tell me why! I open my mouth to my few remaining women friends, and then, after long streams of tears, oh no, now some have got onto this leaf that fell from no tree, it is, rather, part of what was once tree, I shut up again. I open myself up in order to experience something, and then I close myself again. It's all a boundless realm, but not my realm, it is the realm of thunder and cries, of the roaring foam and of the clouds falling like atomic mushrooms, no: rising clouds beneath which the camouflaged lover can proceed resolutely against his enemy (likewise a lover, like him!) and claim to have been sent straight from heaven to his partner, with an incomplete address, however, and there's something not quite right about the partner either as things stand. But the missing part of the address was completed by the Santa Claus Post Office, why then is what I do and say not so well received? In short, this vast realm is the realm of converted and detached houses and apartments. So that people will at last be happy, they should now all rise simultaneously from their places to look for their very own way, and then they after all just go home, where they can do it with each other in peace and quiet or with somebody quite different or have to wait until someone calls up who would like to do it with them. Never mind. They'll always need a house for that, a house keeps its value. A body decays. There are many who are rankled that they don't yet own this or another home. Love and passion can bear simply everything, but they can't get along together.

The headwaters of the mountain spring water cover 600 square kilometers, I call that almost boundless. A lover like this man is not boundless; a lover she is, and she should learn it's the best way to start, that if one wants to be happy there are always boundaries, even if at the moment they still seem to be far away, and that one shouldn't cross them, if one really isn't the water in person. Otherwise sooner or later one ends up in the swamp, which the water, however, has also made when it had nothing more useful to do. Now such nimble, pleasant creatures live on this treeless terrain, pleasant!, because they are so small and one usually doesn't have to see them, the plants alone, sweet grasses, reeds, sedges (what is that? Please write to me without delay, if you know!), bulrushes and cat's tail to gnaw at, I tell you: a paradise! All these plants are rooted in waterlogged soils or at least ones that are flooded from time to time. Have I promised you too much, when I promised there would be something happening there? Take a look at all of it at your leisure. You can nevertheless not turn into water or only with very very great difficulty, but I can understand that is what you want now. You can only become dust for the time being, if you like. You don't have to thank me, I've saved you something there, everything that comes in between, you know. At best, if one is brave enough, one can melt at the sight of another person. What, not the thing for you either? You're more someone for processed cheese slices in the handy tear strip pack? If you were fluid at last, then many of these creatures would frisk around beside and in you, you would see them at last. You could become a place to spend the winter! What do you say to snow geese and other water-dependent birds of passage? Or would you rather be a breeding ground? Herons, coots, cormorants? You would never be alone again, I can whisper that to you, but you won't hear me. These creatures always cry so loudly It would be a preparatory exercise, a little bit of a change, to be as sweet as this Claudia Schiffer (you, who in time to come will step in here, there won't be many of you, but I have to tell you that she's the only woman in the world who during this period of time will not be covered up by the rain of self-hatred), liked by everyone, if I only knew how it's done. But even more I'd like to know how one manages to look like that. Watch the snow, when the sun kisses it, it disappears for sure, but how good it feels at the same time! I'm telling you, it feels like it's in clover! That's exactly how you have to do it. Forget yourself! Only a short time ago you thought you satisfied yourself, not some pictures or other, what picture should human beings present after sport has finally finished with them? There you sat, pedaled away, hopped in a sack, ran as if newborn, fresh off the treadmill and the rowing machine, and you grew hotter, grew tired, careless, aha, you've forgotten to turn off the stove in the sauna and to bring those legs together that belong together. You brought others together. What, in your health club there's a guy standing there at the juice bar and giving you a wave? Unbelievable. His BMW is already waiting outside? It's incredible. Then you must be under twenty-five or live near the city boundary, so that, if he had come from out of town, it wouldn't take him too far out of his way to drive you home. And exactly there, in the fitness shop, but which is really a people gallery, this exciting man has just turned up, long hair, naked to the waist, short trousers, an isotonic drink is dangling from his waistband or it's sticking out of his back pocket, and there you've found a man, whom you now have to listen to attentively, a figure bathed in light, and yet to a great extent innocent when it comes to his appearance! That's just what I don't understand! Hard to believe. Well, I don't know what his limit is in weights. Someone to whom you have to listen attentively, whether you want to or not, and although he doesn't even want to talk to you. As he does so, his eyes roam restlessly around the room looking for something better. Never really paying attention. Oh dear. A considerable degree of harmony between two people, a good strike rate, everything is just right. But then: He made my thoughts go completely in the wrong direction, a woman says to me now. But I'm not listening to her either. What am I saying. I'm telling you, each time one duly heats oneself up again for life, even if all the vitamins have meanwhile unfortunately been killed off by the frequent reheating. There we sit in all our cause and effect, desperately embracing the other, as if he had ever been even a little hot for one; it's embarrassing for me to say so, but at the moment I find the water and his homes much more wonderful than your feeling, which you wrote to me about yesterday, and which, as I see with some disappointment, is smaller than you made out to me, because you're still alive; at any rate this feeling is certainly smaller than your apartment. How otherwise, in all its protectedness, could it survive next to you? That's what you would like, isn't it? To be protected. The big one. You won't do it for less. How on earth did this man hit upon me, this woman asks herself and the one over there, too. She is afraid of being completely alone, because everyone has turned away from her, and above all, she's afraid of having lost a terrible amount of strength with the man, before she will even have got him. Kurt Janisch. If he were human, he would feel sorry that the woman would give up years of her life on the spot for him, because she believes that when he appears, the heavens open: One gets in, but one doesn't get out again. He only wants her house, after all, yet how small it is beside her feelings! But he doesn't know that yet. And when he does know, it'll be too late. How frail is man, high up on his population equivalent, which he produces, calculated from the daily accrual of commercial and industrial waste water, which largely does not concern him, and his domestic waste water (dishes, baths, etc.), which certainly does concern him. Why does one not simply go to sleep and dream? I don't know, but thank you very much for showing me this possibility. What is so wretched about me that I can only be used for writing? But still, I'm well out of it compared to you. Because such a quantity of feeling can't be described at all. So no one is going to reproach me if I can't do it either. Like many other colleagues, one would have to make do with water, if one wanted to work that out. Fire is OK, too, but it eats up too much, too quickly. It leaves nothing behind. Water leaves more, it has brought so much along, principally trees, boulders, mud, etc. Love, please, you take over! Otherwise I have to do that as well. Well then, I'll jump right in feet first, because I never look where I'm going anyway, sweet mistress of language that I am, it loves me at least, now where's she got to? I can't even hold on to it. Puke. Retch. Here are a couple of names with which I would like to do that too. You can think up the names yourself, one of them could well be yours.