at the river I was seeping through the years; around 1979 the fields turned red when I was tortured by a friend which felt like nothing
else, yelling his name.
For a while I would go unpredictable, seized up by this madness. At one point it felt as if the yellow birds were shouting at me...

it looked like the history of the river was cut and it doesn't help if you find something at the edges of paradise,
somehow I believe I am impossible, I don't exist yet.
life has overtaken my stories, continuous communication, responses and other modes of talking,
future media taking on a world in silence, in a slow process extracting desaster.

Take three years of hard black roads, vanish into the distance - (there's barely any white when i walk through the wintery lane) -
just for a second a drawn character appears pale behind a window.

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