every other fleeting inspiration, you photographed the owl that was there before you, then heard someone calling up from the floor below to say that dinner was ready. You open the bathroom window and lazily brush your teeth as you sit on the toilet, completely naked. The white froth of toothpaste bubbles and expands inside your mouth, dropping to the floor. A line from Walser’s poetry: “Night, the dream beetle crawls into my open mouth.”
In dreams, looking into a mirror is a hair-raising experience. The empty black holes looking back at you, so threateningly strange and ravenous. A river flows in bed, and on its bank stands a single tree. Its branches stretch out horizontally, and your wristwatch hangs from one of them, ticking. It will still go on telling the time when we have disappeared from the earth. We, now lying down, black-and-white bodies delving deeply into each other. Until we eventually transform into fossilized tree scarabs, with only our shells remaining.
The dream’s fade-out.
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