Something is building up in me.
There is something developing.
But I can not catch it.
I can not catch it yet with names and symbols.
It's all in my body.
Hopefully it will grow, then I might be able to catch and save it.
Everyone is writing now.
I can not catch a thing between the pages of my notebook.
Barnaby is sitting with closed eyes.
Outside on the tree a pigeon.
The tree is huge and still without any green yet.
It's a huge tree in a berlin backyard.
It has to be huge in order to catch at least a bit
of sun and its warmth between the massive kreuzberg houses.
The evening sun projects the top branches of the tree
onto a high firewall made only out of bricks.
The wall is a monster, a beautiful monster
made of thousands of small bricks and
each little brick is an universe.
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