When I Was Done Traveling,

Poetry Is The One Thing That Isn't Contaminated, The One Thing That Isn't Part Of The Game.

Nothing Happened Today. And If Anything Did, I’d Rather Not Talk About It, Because I Didn’t Understand It.

No One Pays Attention To These Killings, But The Secret Of The World Is Hidden In Them.

Then He Went Out Without Touching Anything And Put His Arm Around Ingeborg, And Like That, With Their Arms Around Each Other, They Returned To The Village While The Whole Past Of The Universe Fell On Their Heads.

The Pain, Or The Memory Of Pain, That Here Was Literally Sucked Away By Something Nameless Until Only A Void Was Left. The Knowledge That This Question Was Possible: Pain That Turns Finally Into Emptiness. The Knowledge That The Same Equation Applied To Everything, More Or Less.