Like a blue yo-yo ball, the earth swings back and forth towards a child’s fist. The child is content like God before the seventh day. It rains with indifference for hours and it is still spring. All humans blessed to be alone stay like seeds and yeast in their shells without the hope of any rising.

An entire district of churches, polished and gilded, rose over hearts. No more place for public toilets, no more gutters for beggars. They sleep shoulder to shoulder, their eyes hollowed out by hunger or thirst. It smells again like dead souls, they all fall from the tree of life like apples baked on the stove, sizzling, sprouting juice and cracking on the peel. The core shows up as if it were pus under the surgeon’s blade. A flood of souls is deleted from the big list.

I come back from the market with empty bags. My neighbor has a bitter-sweet smile today, like a thread of fabric torn from the hem. The small old lady from the attic passed away. She had her rhyme poems in print at some publishing house and a photo from her youth on the cover. She begged for a soup helping and shared with vagabond cats. When I hear that another human blessed to be alone died, it feels like pressing a too ripe pear with the thumb. Against my will a dimple appears, and it doesn’t taste like honey anymore.

In my room it smells like mold more and more. My bedroom is a pantry with rotten fruits between bed sheets. It looks like I will remain a worm this spring, before becoming the ant left prisoner in a deserted mole. From my white flesh only a few fat sparrows from the nearby monastery will taste. No one escapes from the common pit, except for those who know how to dig.