Mein gespeicherter Ort

Moonlight, through the trees' branches, sings its songs of absolute silence on the wet leaves lying on the ground like years ago, million years ago. He comes with his stuff in his hands: Fruit wooden case, three cans of beer and a bottle of whisky. First he puts them down. Then he stares at the tree and weltered in themselves beauty, takes a photo of the beauty. Three words, an act of absolute art, a splendid knotted black-black noose, three beautiful petite flowerpots, orange, blue, green and he puts them delicately on the casket, then the prints of his insurance white and clean. Then and beside the prints, his passport, all the money he could draw from his accounts, his cards, the credit, und seine Studentenausweis, seine Studentenausweis, Studentenausweis, ausweis, ausweis… weis echoes wein, vein, clocks Quentin, clocks. But now, leaned back at the tree, that he has opened the seals of slumber, his tongue and lips go flaccid as his pints of bitter reach down his belly and his right hand moves to pick the bottle to his mouth and swill, neither any sign of his possible pasts or swigs, nor any picture of the possible trace of its future tracks. It's rushing for the end, it's rushing to its own roped-line end, Ende gut alles gut. It does end well, the tree's branch doesn't break and the green pot does bring the void beneath his feet and does roll over close to the pints. The reset phone with its only picture and its one saved number, rings and as rain starts pouring, sings its only piece of music, Symphony of Sorrowful Songs, Symphony of silence and death; so he called it. But the orchestra plays only for 45 seconds because that's how long it takes to leave a missed call. And so, the dangling body ignores the orchestra's forty-five-seconds of long slow crescendo all night long. He knows it's just about time for the audience to become all ears.