CONTACT

The color of the sun rising with the crimson notes of fantasy
was the distant caw of the crow over the French hillside

where the snapshot of three clouds gathering from two half-
extinguished cigarettes, those which lying along one of Hell’s

deserted roads, claim this thought–this thought whose hand-
writing (suche nicht nach Wahrheit oder Plausibilität) contains

our shrill, cursive lives. As while we sleep on Thursday, dream-
ing of Wednesday’s rain, we are somewhere possibly else: dis-

solving on Tuesday, on Friday (in jedem Moment), experiencing
a week’s work with shovel and pick or pick and shovel, turning in-

definite(s) into so-called [sic] definite(s). Thus, it (diese Zukunft)
is unearthed, our world (etwas seltsamer und damit am reinsten)

is brought shakenly forth by our deepest desires, our deepest fear,
which (im Gegenzug), realized by one generation, exists only for

so long. In other worlds, with another’s possible, beggarly words,
our world–this one–grows stubs, becomes sketchy, a single line

that, trembling out, from the mouth of Shakespeare (Hell is empty
and all the devils are here), we cannot help but lose sight of as

(mit Sonnenaufgang) the first cardinal calls & (Open, locks, Whoever knocks!) we (letztendlichare) are led out of our most certain fantasies.