I've known for a long time, there's no need for nicknames, false promises, or words. I would have to finally set out bravely without even looking back, slamming doors and windows behind me.
Those who have been honored to meet me so far will stay with me for a while. For a while, I still want to put a flower wreath in the waterfall hair cascade of real lady-angels. I carry with me my memories condemned to neglect at the age of forty, less than three years old.
My battered, timeless yearning for a more honest, romantic world, which seems increasingly distant, can only be an idyllic fog on the wall of my thinking imagination.
Yet, like a magnetic force, it pulls you towards you, beckons you to think that it might be possible to get by here in a different way. My longing hope often dwindles, and I start to feel empty, just like the gaping Emptiness inside me.
I am still weak with earthly stupidity, like an outcast, a clumsy child who could not be adopted by any shelter. I know, I feel: those who want to trust in me are executed by Time in order. Like a wild animal driven from an approaching pack of wolves, I was forced to flee hesitantly, and I can tell; if there is and will be someone, who accept my tossed, shipwrecked fate, I can justly entrust it to you. Maybe: I'll just be a crying trembling or aching guilt, because that's all that's left. If I could only speak to him honestly, as a child at heart, I would tell him the filth of my petty life in Alamo.
That it really hurt and wounded me again when I saw her kissing between the tendrils of embracing arms, or that she deliberately found herself saying that with murderous irony on the phone that year. And I can only ask that those who called me friends hold my trembling hands in the last minutes of my life and comfort me!