FERSEHTURM

Prologue: The city is a magma. Only the red lights of the yards emerge like a voiceless shouts from the haze.
There’s love beneath?
Scene one: The sun is hanging from the sky, it is reduced in rags (it seems that it is thorn to pieces by the rats). The
tram landes along street A. The pavement supports the depressed cement of the houses. A certain man all
unkempt, with a very sharp plan in the inside pocket of his jacket, rushes towards the stop of the square B. A
beautiful and sweet girl from somewhere else has a negative presentiment...

Thougths that don’t pass throught that get entangled between the veins and they blacken my blood with
uncertainty like a kiss with open eyes.
And the look behind your back forgotten in a segment of motionless sky.
The horizon’s line is a razor blade.
Adieu, a look’s meeting, sipping this wine that comes down from our eyes. From the jacket I extract a
stylet.
And I elbow my one’s way through the crowd.
The top of the tower is warped up in the clouds, the palls that hide the end of the story... will, maybe, be
the end of the world, if everything falls down like a wall of memories?

Scene two: The atonic coming and going of the people looks like a disorderly and afraid escape during a nuclear
attack... He hits the hand in the pocket and his heart throbbing...