Es ist kein Platz für Menschen auf der Erde. Sie machen zu viel Scheiß.
Jeder Tag ist ein Überraschungsei.
Dear Mr. Beethoven!
I cannot call you Ludwig, I am sorry, but our relationship is difficult as you know. I listen to you and you cannot hear my words. Today I am trying to see if you are fit for any words at all. You see, Mr. Vincent wanted to cut off his other ear today!
He does not listen. His only interest is to see what he wants to see. I followed him for a bit through a kind of revolving glass door . He kept going as if he knew where his way would lead to. He didn’t stop for one moment. I think he found it more than just hard to look around and see what I could see. But then, this goes for the other way round too.
And you? Though you are deaf and unwilling, you listen to your own music and you are probably as blind as Mr. Vincent. I am sorry to tell you. Now, don’t get that mad at me. You are throwing things again, no, not this glass please. Now look, all these shards here.
It is difficult. You know about all these magic tools of perception but you run away, spiralling out inside your inner universe. Don’t you realise that it is connected to mine whether you like it or not?
Seriously, you are one bit of a hot and noisy hellbender!
I’ll better approach you tomorrow again.
Dear Mr. Vincent!
Look if you don’t listen. Mr. Beethoven is mad with me. Why are you artists such a wonky lot? I don’t know how to do this. I know you, you know? But then, I guess it doesn’t matter really. Do I bore you?
Yes I know, you cannot wait for these fucking sunflowers. I didn’t have one summer in peace. When the full moon was up in the night, yellow, sensuous, lazy and fat, I could just wait for you howling at the sky, drunk, restless and full of an insatiable desire for sunflowers. When I was lusting for women, white bodies in the night, dark and secret triangles, soft breasts and whispered promises you interrupted my longing with your shouts and with your merciless dances.
Destruction must make your autumn possible, and when spiders bridge the golden light between windows and trees you are busy to burn out the skies with sunflower-whirlwinds.
Mr. Vincent, I don’t want to criticize you. I want you to talk to me.
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