Thursday, February 3, 2011

Milena Velba Boob Milk

17 October 2008

I push away a small tear. No. That is a lie. Because you know: lies I can do better than crying. So I do a combination thereof. I lie about the crying. And would come somewhere much rather cry about the lies. Bookmarks. What a word. It lies there in the book on the table on the second floor, next to me. I want to put their hands on it and the surface with your fingertips . Feel Change as if the something. It is not alive. Nothing to it. The language lives only through the reader. And the writer. But he is already elsewhere. But I am there. Here. Fingers over the pages propelled, wuensched, the sentences and words would rise up and position himself next to me like a kit. Over there are walls and people opposed to it and have one foot bent back, with the shoe sole on the wall. In their hands: coffee cup. Because no one uses more cups. Only someone sits in between sips from a cup and the edge of the cup hugs with their hands.
We build roads and lanes, houses and buses and cars and shoes and clothes that you can buy in shops that look as if everything old. Than anything anyone else has ever worn and returned. I pause. See my desk along. Paper everywhere. Stacks. Not knowing where to go. Small post-its. Anglicisms, coffee, cold, a hat, the back there is, my stomach touched the table edge. Hunger. I hear sometimes just to myself: Empty. I go higher. Button me up and listen to the gentle beating on my chest. Only a thin skin and chest. More is not there. A a dull throb.

I stand up. Role with the chair back and lift me. I turn left and walk a piece. For coffee. A box of salt. Very dangerous place. Since sugar was down. I move on. Offices everywhere. All empty. I have a headache and the round turn faster to achieve the white sofas. I sit down. Breathe. Put me. Feet high. The spine ousted for a brief moment the headache. I'll be a pain. It burns under and on my fingers. Because they feel like. Only a short time feel.
There it is again: The Kloss. I call my mother and ask if they give me a pig roast and sauce boils. I bring the Kloss and then cut it with a sharp knife. Where: No Semmelstueckchen. Only scraps of uebriggebliebenen Gefuehlsbrocken. They taste like tofu, for nothing. I to eat, because tomorrow I will not rain. My shoes have hardly any soles. Then I go out there and test how low I sink into the pond. And if I can just drown Sun The water is enough for me to the eye. And when I get out, I shall drop all over her body. Only from the eyelashes, everything is dry. I go to the bathroom, pull me out and dry me off. On tap I press my two index fingers under the tap undreibe a little water from the pipes. Small blisters on the skin. The wrinkles are filled gradually and I rub my eyes until it hurts a little bit with the index fingers.

Then I open it. The eyes. I sit at a desk fixed on the screen and enjoy the feeling of the water that runs over my cheek bones.


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