I walked down to the beach to make some time disappear. Dark from the outset – and cold. The long, flat, scarcely visible footpath. The twinkling lights of distant freighters. I was held up at a level crossing on the way back. A passenger train heading south, a coal train north. Friday night is always full of the endlessly collapsing sky. The whole weekend moist and curled up for sleep. An empty glass at the far end of the table. An empty cup much closer. A startled fox at the edge of a deep forest, preparing to venture out, but suddenly seen. It contemplates retreating into the depths, but is unable to move – eyes shining like wet glass. The night collects every last negative thought – the more the better. I scarcely say a word. I am unable to recognise my voice when I am finally called upon to say something. I bow my head and allow myself to be corrected, all the time muttering dumb words of love.

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