The polyphonic coloured chips dance wobbling through the nights rotationwinds on sunlit lips pick words, hush into spiral kites. A geometric mindless thought, distracted, (re-)affected - curled, seeks willow-dreams in crimson court, hazed translucent through mystic swirls. The only gods you’ll ever know, they vanished into moods. The incidental evidence sings humble songs in juicy roots. Now time seems paralysed in vain; dead stars in silv’ry fine veined ice… forgotten, all the changing pain - sleep! shattered matter, sleep! You’ve had your tasty slice.

Stranger in Time He came into this world and as soon as he was able to express his will, he didn’t know what to do with it. So he did the things he was told, people do, making a living. Was there something else to come? ... And since he was born into a part of this world where life was never short of fulfilling at least one’s existentiell needs, he didn’t suffer (not that way…) Others, elsewhere, did. But that was non of his business. He wasn’t interested in history, was sort of an unhappy Buddhist. No religion, no future, no past. And the present was filled with emptiness. Was there something else to come? ... Politics and some strange mixture of greed and practical empathy, inborn, from somewhere, he thought, kept the machine running, he thought. There was cooperation, surging for millions of little paths through the fog. There was taste, smell, sensation with as little meaning as possible - survival, maybe… what for? Was there something else to come? ... On day, after work, when he was strolling through the park, he always strolled through after work, he saw a dead rat in the bushes, laid there, down, as if it just stopped, with wet, tousled fur; some ants were starting to make their way through the eyes to the brain and whatever else was to be found in there… Selective pieces of an organic system out of control. Was there something else to come? Was that the ugliness of life - was it the ugliness of afterlife - or was that beauty instead? Was that a nice destination, an end of suffering, an end of stuff? Was there something else to come? ... Or was the rotting stuff just a tool for some questionable transformation to some soft or strong suffering to come? A bridge, a passage, a nowhere’s way… or somewhere’s way - some growth potential passing through the guts of those little ant couriers, which were busy cutting apart the previous rat-composition? Part of the gone rat as part of the next, or after next President of the Russian Federation, maybe - or whichever federal illusion to come… Was there something else to come? United we stand - united we fall… apart. United we rot, he mumbled. He looked at the dead rat and for a second he looked into a mirror - or so it seemed. And feeling of disgust and satisfaction was filling for a moment his emptiness. Angels kill. What? Was there something else to come? ... … another sleepless night. He opened the window and looked into another fresh, moonless late summer night. Some bird was singing or crying into the void. It must have had some intention. Did its intention come out of the void? It felt good, looking into a soon lost vision through the night with no intention - was that possible? … with no aim… the vision was the vision was the vision into nothing… Something else was coming…