If she could see me now, she wouldn’t believe it. Look at us, I whisper at her through time, you’d love this. Everything you wanted and still nothing.
We are at the brink, at the edge of destruction, at the cusp, the final race, the last human choice. We will go forward from here. It may be a beginning or an ending – we won’t know for many years.
Years ago the future was dark to me – a mystery. It still is. He still is. We still are.
The ivy plant I stole is growing in the windowsill, so slowly. What will its future be?
You should write – you should sing – you should dance to bad music – you should travel before your hips and knees and eyes go out.
What is it to us? We cannot see the melting glaciers from our ivory towers.
She told me it was a fine example of fictocriticism. I told her I like to refer to it as my life.
Ich bin ausländer.
On the train a little girl tells her mom about London. London doesn’t hurt like Berlin does, she says, leaving the train. She goes back to her hotel. She leaves Berlin. She grows up and some other things happen.
Photographs like the blink of an eye. Memories like faded photographs. I can’t see anything in my head. All is dark here.
Today it snowed in the place where I was born. Today it was the hottest it’s ever been in Antarctica. We are all cold and dying like the sun. Her son will be born soon, into this mess we’ve made. Clean your room, child. Put your toys away. Be responsible for something.