Montag, 3. Oktober 2011

Was  bin  ich  immer  in  den  Leichenzügen,
vom  Regen  hingepeitscht,  von  Rabenflügen
umweht,  und  schaue  alte  irre  Witwen  tanzen,
und  Nonnen  beten  still,  und  Knaben  halten  lachend  die  Monstranzen.
Was  bin  ich  immer  bei  den  Zweifelhaften,
bei  Toten  und  Verwünschten,  die  am  Krame  haften,
im  kalten  Regenwind  der  Einsamkeiten!
Was  hör  ich  immer  dumpfe  Särge  in  die  Erde  gleiten,
Kirchtürme  rasen  wie  gegeißelt  um  den  Himmel  immer,
in  jeder  Gasse  hockt  ein  bettelndes  Gewimmer:
Mein  Leben  ist  ein  Regnen  und  ein  Klagen,
ein  langes  Sterben  von  Novembertagen.
y.g.

Freitag, 6. Mai 2011

das ich nicht mit dem rauchen aufhören kann kotzt mich so an
ab sonntag starte ich noch einen versuch

Donnerstag, 31. März 2011

"the final fact being that at the very bottom of his soul he was an outsider, and anti-social, and he accepted the fact inwardly, no matter how bond-streety he was on the outside. his isolation was a necessity to him; just as the appearance of conformity and mixing-in with the smart people was also a necessity.
but occasional love, as a comfort and soothing, was also a good thing, and he was not ungrateful. on the contrary, he was burningly, poignantly grateful for a piece of natural, spontaneous kindness: almost to tears. beneath his pale, immobile, disillusioned face, his child's soul was sobbing with gratitude to the woman, and burning to come to her again; just as his outcast soul was knowing he would keep really clear of her."
d.h.l.

Dienstag, 1. Februar 2011