Und dann doch nochmal Kontakt mit der Außenwelt. Ein Tag ohne Bilder, weil man nicht für Fotos innehalten mag und der eigene Speicher nicht aufnahmebereit ist. Supermarkt des geringsten Misstrauens, die Kälte der Flure, beiläufige Begegnungen, aber niemand hat Gedanken oder Gespräche und so gibt man sein Geld ab, packt die Taschen und sinkt wieder in den Beginn des Abends. Wie in ein dichtes Daunenbett mitten im Sommer.
Different evening, wrestling different tasks, pushing forth a backlog of things asking for attention, more or less pressing. Down on the streets, a trailer is being unloaded. Suitcases, backpacks, a box of toys. Conversations next to the main door. Returning, always a bit calmer and more quiet than starting out on an adventure yet to be seen. (A small candle and an incense, the proximity of kind, featherweight ghosts, and a thinking in chords even lacking inspiration to play any of them. Be well on your way into your night everyone, wherever you are.)
The evening, earlier late hours and an attempt to counter some common issues. Making room for the unplanned, the unproductive, time without the need of an explicit purpose. Still, a task surprisingly hard to handle. Twilight in between the houses. People meeting in the pub, strong bass lines and some voices pushing out of the open door and floating through damp air before dissolving in echoes and darkness. A TV set flooding rooms across the street with artificial images. Silhouettes of people, motionless, quiet chairs. Seasonless mood, grateful for the rain but missing the warm nights. Have a soft evening everyone wherever you are.
Close to 10pm again. Thoughts in free flow. Feeling limited and small. Looking back at hours, days, surrounded by cities, walls, churches measuring time in decades, centuries. A crowd of those still young finding their ways into the night, riding motorcycles and steering cars that have travelled all of the country and back. A moth circling the streetlight, fireworks in the distance, and the presence of the soothing waves. Calm moments, another story and no moon. Buonanotte everyone wherever you are.
Abendrituale, auch: Wäschekeller. Einzählen der Maschine mit den Fingern, immer verschämt und darauf hoffend, zufälliger Beobachtung zu entgehen. Entlang der Höfe auf den Balkonen wird gegessen und getrunken, Menschen diskutieren über Grundeinkommen und künstliche Intelligenz und es sind jene Situationen, in denen man zusieht, Abstand zu gewinnen. Getrieben, nervös, verspannt. Und gedanklich immer noch Stunden zurück.