A knock on the door. At this hour. Who could that be. Full moon peeks in through the attic window. The plant recites Kierkegaard. Red light ceiling. A muted comedian. More insistent knocking on the door. Get up from the chair. The bottle falls down. Shock-relief: It’s empty. Ear to the door. Someone goes down the stairs, fast. An empty milk carton on the doormat. Apparently empty. A cassette tape wrapped in a piece of paper. It’s a letter. Dai Coelacanth is back from somewhere. But from where? And who is this guy. Is he? Or is he just a voice? The front door of the building slams shut. Back to the private life in a Berlin apartment. I put two slices of bread in the toaster. Where is the vinegar.
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