Die Nacht, auch: Eine Schar jugendlicher Touristen hinter der Kreuzung. Laute Stimmen, weicher Klang, fremde Worte. Selbst: Müde genug, sich in Geschichten verlieren zum Reisen, zu Besuchern und Gästen und dem Gefühl, das an Orten haftet. Keine Bilder.
10pm and not much further. Filing the weekend, storing pictures of forest and meadows and rivers, for whichever later moment might care. Calls and conversations echoing in an inner realm still veiled by both ones own conflicts and worries and pondering the global insignificance of both. Watching the candles burn bright, watching other rooms across the street go dark one by one. Just hours from tomorrow. Have a calm night wherever you are.
📷 lost-in-moments
In between hours. Watching the play of Christmas lights above the backyards. A late bus passing through the stop, empty, like a blurred yellow ghost heading outbound. Restoring some rudimentary order: Living room. Kitchen. Tired laziness wrestling that anxiety of how next morning might welcome a sleepy soul. No real sense of time yet.
📷 noir
So here are the seconds in between the hours. The time to hear ones own heartbeat, ones own breath, the sound of ones own joints moving between rooms, silent as if any careless noise would be to wake up the whole house. Right now, to feel oneself one in everything, one with everything. Except sleep, maybe.
2am and on. Interlude, state changes. An imaginary clock ticking, breath and heartbeat trying to align yet fail. Lying half awake, waiting for silence to cover this hour again.