sipping coffee in silence comes as luxury, because today i don't feel like I have to go anywhere. because i can.

66th impression
somewhere at the forefront there at the kastanienallee
a stranger's live event the anxiety of signs: brown crippled walls with bullet holes resist the everyday routine in these streets.

new concrete glares colder than torn facades which
bend to the left
which are linked over a rupture where a fast train arrives.

at a given pause i'm watching the boredom behind the windows,
I could be there all week if i were like each one
because it is the rain over the new buildings, inexperienced to the instances of loneliness, corridors, more locks. the city 's learning while somewhere else the city fails.the buildings out there become boring everywhere for half the price.

touching the cold surface the tower block proved notorious concrete made from ancient cities.

the fields of germany, spend a night in each one and wake up with a smile.

yes storms are a-brewing like that strong cup of tea that was left sat for an hour then reboiled on a stove in some drunken desperation.
backspaces are places where people shake hands in the morning
drinking from a bottle of beer

in a tent a silent man with one hand
only with eyes that have seen the war.

also saw a dog running free, a stag, a bat, an owl; strange noises
during the night.

sometimes there is not a lot of choice. this is the full stop.
this happens where there is hardly a correction possible and everything is a procedure of chance.

they dig a lot of holes, abandoned railway tracks with dug out holes and slopes of earth, chimneys behind a villa though the mist.

it is a mere mirror, a reflection of what is in my respectively other people's memory. and a z, and another C then brandenburg recht flach und mit bäumen immer in der distanz.

lange strasse 28 in sachsen anhalt smells of a mixture of oil and disinfectant. the wallpapers are all different, there's patterns everywhere.
i found the lost GDR for a tenner. outside a farmer is burning scrapped sofas.

door squeeks and turns and inside smells like people sitting and smoking for four to five hours. more coffee follows. we're four in a room for five days feeling good. berlin just does.

a former nogozone offers space. next to an old hangar, birch trees stand whistling.

i can hear people talking walking on the street. it is the mumble of an old town, sometimes a place becomes more static and this is when i stop. not second-order nature, but primal nature for the twenty-first-century body. but it's our second nature that defeats us.

location X

The incident presented takes place in a small simple tent located in a rural area somewhere Sweden, rather secluded and isolated. the given context represents a general human condition (solitude).

da ist oft nichts außer flaches grünes land. thousands it feeds, another slope deeper than the sea.

bergen is quite a nice town with some beat ups at night. in the centre of an ex-socialist plattenbau area. it looks like being in the stomach of something.

an exclamation mark on a flag on the volksbühne states OST. Then I'm watching the cows on a wall. alphabetically.

There is a pile of plastic containers.

somehow the shape of history appears between straight lines of a crumbling eastern dream. the consequences are sprayed on a wall, a rune, the measure to understand these places somewhere in a distant land.
the will to destroy exploits an underlying fear : the knowledge that at some places the town with its people failed dispute is the first part of this message for silent receivers fuelled with young doubt.

late at night i was under the protective cover of darkness found
what i wanted then drowned in white sheets.

this one here is getting static, no moving landscapes and no passer-by. there is not static, i go where the world moves somewhere else.

just trying to find one destination: home.

nordic forests and lakes in the distance, here and there a house or two, some broken cars in the fields, mossy forests. for the best part i was being a slave of myself:
similar to a computer simulation.... rushed through the wet scenery, strange impressions in a haze morbid atmosphere on a beach that has seen better days. That's the place where our dreams liquefy into salt/water.
Go, catch the foam!

leaves are falling like rain, the forest have a clean carpet of brown dry leaves. that's where colourful mushrooms grow.

this IS the north. time streaming towards a break, a mechanism has got me under its spell. grid of vectors, equipped with motion sensors that respond to my neighbours in this town.

I walk the streets up and down for days and I noticed that nothing
changes much: personal point of view: a section that offers a
back door. and sometimes I calculate the number of potential friends as well as enemies.

I build a map because I am a stranger here, they see and feel it as theirs, extending out in all directions. It is a home, not my home, the nonspaces of simulation, to run, if desired, I can be/can be removed no vanishing point and no horizon where the sea meets the sky in a blur that can not be/can not be removed no vanishing point and no horizon.

my replacement of their visions does not offer me escape, the power to destroy structures is a culture which threatens to absorb the space where it takes place.
And the town crumbles with them.

inside a cold old situation, when people with packages are marching
to the unknown place of faces and bodies placed inside a life
and tomorrow, there were, there will be people, People who walk without knowing who I am or where I go to, where I belong.

tomorrow I'll be somewhere else with anew identity once again,
scene over. day and night, a land of maximum tension torn from a shadow or from a trace of landscape

but now I am heading towards the sea and what is now will be diluted in my memories.