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The city streets at dawn. There is a warm wind amplifying the droning traffic and covering everything in a blanket of shimmering heat and I walk on and on, block after block. Everything around me stands out, the edges of things are clearly distinguishable. Blurry images of color, reflections distorting cars, people and the towering buildings of chrome and glass above me, as if the aura of a translucent ghost was hovering above the city, slowly descending to haunt us.

There is a destination I have to reach, a place I have to go to, but I know that it is awfully far away. Still, I have to reach it before nightfall. If I don’t, this is what I will find:

A hill at the end of the road, and on that hill there will be a cross, white and shining in reflected moonlight and, of course, there will be a serpent hanging down from it, a bronze serpent, hissing senselessly away into the night. At the foot of the hill there will be an old man waiting for me, speaking in a loud and booming voice, and I will kneel down at the foot of the hill, staring at the dark ground and the old man will touch the back of my head with a cold hand and I will cry and pray and wait for the end of the world.

So you see, I have to reach the end of the city before the last light of the day will fade. But the city is so vast and this hill is so far, far away.


The day I lost my head, I gave birth to infinity. An ancient being took me over, transformed me and time was endless and gone. Past, present and future became one, a two-way street circling itself. I could have changed what had happened to me, could have undone the event that had led to the end of my former existence, but then again…

This would only have stopped a God from freeing me. An action useless to even be thought of or undertaken. He and I were one now and everything else was encompassed between us. Swirling galaxies, spinning planets, a vast blackness of space full of invisible light.

I could see my former home in suburbia, the quiet street, the trees, lawns with picket fences, dogs barking somewhere, kids riding their bikes, cars driving slowly. Barbecues, swimming pools, middle-class paradise and hidden alcoholism. The occasional scandal and affair, whispered on and being heard through the grapevine. And then:

My father. Corny as it may sound, but he was my hero. The father every young boy could and would wish for. I guess that’s why I never got over his death. And it is definitely why I went into the garage, his old shotgun in hand, and blew my head away. I can still taste tears in my mouth which is no longer a physical thing. My mom and older brother are there in the garage now, my mom kneeling and weeping, my lifeless, bloody body pressed tightly against her. My brother standing behind her, looking pale and absent. A living shock. Only a ghost of his former self. I wonder if he can see me, how I am now. A blue-eyed ghost looking at a new-born, ancient God. We all miss each other. The world has become a salty tear, falling for all eternity, reflecting a shattered universe, a broken family.

With or Without

Without words

I can understand you

Without touching you

I can feel you

With my eyes closed

I can see you

With all my heart

I miss you

It seems like fall again

Tears falling from the trees

And the bark is soft

A pale horse is standing at the pond of feelings

Its rider swimming in the water

A leaf is turning in the wind

And dances along, alone

Unconcerned in perfect movement

Alone it seems happy

Loosened from the illusion of the tree

Alone it is happy

Nature’s strange occurrences

A circle of lonesome repetition

The ring of recurrence

Just like any other season

Lying in bed, almost in perfect darkness, waiting for sleep to come. The bedroom door is slightly ajar, and from somewhere, not quite sure from where exactly, the night’s last weak, pale light shivers into the room, slowly and carefully, as if it, too, was afraid of the ghost.
The ghost tries to hide in the twilight, between the shadows and the furniture, the bed, the closet, the scattered clothes on the floor and on the chair in front of the small table. But Vincent can see her. She is floating a few inches above the wooden floor, pointing at him. Her mouth is an open hole, reeking of death and old feces, revealing rotten fangs. Her black, wet hair hangs down into her almost green face. Long and twisted fingernails, yellow and bloody red, pointing right at Vincent’s eye. The dim light shining in from the hallway to his right tries to creep back out of the room, away and away, fleeing, while more shadows are creeping in from the window to his left. Still, the ghost is perfectly visible to him, it cannot hide entirely, probably doesn’t even want to. After all, the ghost is drenched in the white light of the dead and this light is shining through, threatening to burst into the world and Vincent’s bedroom. He can feel it on his face, almost taste it on his lips, it burns his skin in the coldest shiver he ever had to endure. The ghost is between the ever growing shadows, moving awfully quick. At one moment she is floating right next to Vincent’s closet, then the air swirls and she is standing at his bed, looking down at him with black and knowing eyes, some strange black liquid dripping down from them. She doesn’t say anything but Vincent can hear her anyway. She is in his head, always has been, always will be, and therefor, there is no chance of escaping her.
She says: “You will never be alone,” and Vincent pulls his blanket up over his face, hiding beneath it in a smell of fear and sweat and stale air. He doesn’t want to see anymore, he doesn’t want to hear anything else.
But again she says: “You will never be alone.”
His mother died yesterday, and now she is back.

The city below is quiet. The city that never sleeps has finally fallen into a dreamless slumber. From up here, almost 1776 feet high, I see darkness beneath me. Well, not quite. A fine layer of snow has fallen within the last three hours, covering the streets and sidewalks, reflecting the pale moon’s glow, drenching the city’s buildings in a ghostly white shimmer. The snowy surface down there is perfect, unscathed by footprints or tires, a perfect white blanket. I stare at my reflection in the window before I turn around and take a good look at the people that are here with me. We are a group of about thirty people. Men and women, no one under the age of twenty-five. The candles on the conference table are slowly burning down and no one has said a word for what seems to be a very long time.
Three hours ago the lights went out, then a mild but persistent panic started to settle in, lingering underneath the business-manner my followers now try to represent. Although they knew this was coming, or thought they knew and believed, they are all scared. I can see the fear painted on their black and yellow faces. Sitting ghosts in candlelight along a round table.
“The world has ended,” I tell them and they all seem to be silently moaning when they hear this catchphrase once again. “It has ended and that’s why we are here. Together. Not alone. Remember this. No big bang, no bombs, no fire. The world just ended.”
“Is it still turning? Will there be another sunrise?” A woman looks at me with a mild flicker of hope in her eyes.
“I don’t know. I really don’t. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
Three days until Christmas. Only three days. But there might not even be a single tomorrow out there, not waiting just beyond the horizon.

Hust, hust. Zeitreise, schon wieder gestern

Reich mir den Apfel, sonst setz ich mich drunter.


Als Sprudel Limonade, gleich vier davon

Und im Radio zündet ein Mädchen den Regen an.

Welch wundervolle Melodie, und die Augen,

alles wird schwer. Der Himmel geht von schwarz zu blau


Und der Junge, die Dame, der König

Sie alle tanzen zu viert um einen grünen Kreis


Denn eine Hand schiebt Geld über einen Tisch

Warum nicht?


Es ist wieder soweit, noch einmal ist es gestern

Die Musik verlischt, die Flaschen werden geschlossen.


Mach ein Fass auf, ein Trank ist noch da

Der graue Wind weht langsam still herein

Und seine Blätter legen sich um mein Blatt

Während draußen ein Zauberer sein schwarzes Pferd anhält


Und eine zehn, eine neun, tanzen schwarz

Sie alle tanzen zu viert um einen grünen Kreis


Denn eine Hand schiebt Geld über einen Tisch

Warum nicht?


Ich trinke die letzten Schlücke, jetzt ist es heute

Und der Zauberer reitet auf seinem schwarzen Pferd


Zurück nach Texas.


Denn nur eine Hand nimmt nun das Geld vom Tisch.

Warum auch nicht, ehrlich.


Warum auch nicht?