Hallo, August: Freitagmorgen, ungewaschen, zerklüftete Stundengebirge, halbdurchsichtige Geisterträume. Die Eigenwelt des frühen Tages, wenn die Gedanken ihren Reigen zu tanzen beginnen und die inneren Schilde alle noch heruntergefahren sind. Die Vögel klingen rauher als sonst, das Wasser wird nicht warm, man stolpert über die Neuordnungen des Vorabends und fragt sich, welche Schlüsse man zwei Dämmerungen vorher gezogen hat. Sucht im Kühlschrank nach der passenden Marmelade. Gießt den Kaffee auf, wünscht sich ein altmodisches Klemmbrett für Liste, die der Woche noch gehört, samt dickem Stift zum Abhaken. Oder Streichen. Je nachdem. Schneller Puls unter rasenden Wolken. Neuer Regen. Habt es mild heute.
Finally: Challenging ones own perception by trying to recall everything that used to be of importance ever since leaving the first half of the day. And failing, as expected. Wondering whether to pick up that red thread and walk all the way back, but then letting things fade into the unknown past isn't too bad either. No guitar players, no candles tonight, most of the windows closed and most of the street like in a mode of early night. Even though it's already too late for that. Sleep tight everyone wherever you are.
Close to midnight. The intangible clouds, the hidden links in between and the vast universe behind. Pondering about bits flowing down wires, the paths they take, the structures they form. Feeling a cool night, the neighbourhood that refuses to rest, the music that keeps on playing on and on. The art of laying awake in twilight as date displayed turns over. Today tomorrow yesterday and somewhere in between. Sleep well everyone once it's time for that, wherever you are.
10pm, still frantically running. Needles in haystacks, bandwidth jammed with logged events, an odd sequence of characters and numbers lacking any obvious pattern even at closer look. Communication threads left half-open, unacknowledged, unsure whether this is how it should be. A city wrapping itself in night again, neighbours smoking on the windowsill again, hardly anyone crossing below. New thoughts old music and searching for versions of oneself within. Thin lines enclosing weird dreams. Sleep well everyone wherever you are.
Much later. Slightly dizzy, for various reasons. The cold the heat the fast hours the old music and the sound of the birds that roamed before dusk drew in and bats started circling above old roads. Choosing the right amount of artificial light, and failing at it. A candle on the balcony across, an empty bus, a bunch of people with a bunch of suitcases and random flashlights depicting whatever hides in the edges of this days blanket. Weaving first dreams, with cautious hands. Have a soft night wherever you are.