LETTER TO K.

We are standing at the aged, carefree gate of Autumn. In front of me is the space cabin of a gutted, former push-button telephone booth, in which a push-button telephone is sold. I ask: Does everything come to such a fate? An object that has no draft at its end or length, as if it were an airy space itself.

Even further away, the shadows of the night grow as some heated, drunken punks frolic to their heart's content, knocking over beer bottles and smashing them on each other's hips. It would be better to close my hearing ears, to close my seeing eyes tightly, to completely shut out this messy, broken world! In my soul - fortunately - adulthood does not apply even now, although the fourth X is dangerously close.

The slaps of taunting and public shaming might one day become nothing, if I myself believe that there can still be some small good in this no man's land. And maybe the sudden-soon death of my loved ones is not valid either, that they left me on my own too early, saying: It was time for me to get by on my own!

I see ghosts smelling of hay in my dreams, who keep threatening me, while my friends who I believed to be forever run away, citing excuses, since they should also live Life, making excuses for their own alibi. I see masks of withering smiles among the gestures of superficial people, which irritate me more than amaze me. In all cases, Being is an orphan and breaks apart at every stop!