Forgive me. Forgive me. Unfortunately, these words look like somebody’s calling for my apology, and I’m mumbling in a mad mood: “well, forgive me, forgive me”. But in fact – on the edge, behind the hedge – that’s the most genuine “forgive me” that I’ve said or written and that you’ve heard or read. Forgive. Forget. Forgive.
I can tell you – let’s laugh together – about those who try to pick me up (such a disgusting term, like I’m the fallen key). Alors, let’s return to – I don’t know how to call them, they already aren’t boys, but aren’t men yet. Return. Turn. Move on. Look right.
I took a fancy for literature, and that doesn’t sound terrible if you don’t know that for literature means for writing it. Voyez-vous, it’s absolutely clear what to do for the undoubtedly talented and untalented, but those who are in the middle have a pretty wonky location. If I really have a gift – that’s the gift of transcription, imitation, simulation, but I don’t control it, like my unending but’s, do you belive, do you believe me?
One girl who translated “visual diary” like “visual diarrhea” would call this letter “word diary”, but I still insist on the stream of thoughts. By the way, I don’t feel good enough – such a foolish set of signs, ironically, “I feel bad” or “it hurts me” look better, than inverse assurances. Nevermind. I’ve got nobody. I have nothing but myself and this letter. So poorly. So purely. Tell me, raw wordplays are surely better than phrases from popular movies, aren’t it? There is one kind of birds – they seem like having a wound in the chest, a bleeding heart. Their eyes look more sensible because of it.
You have such smart eyes, they used to tell me. But I always wanted to hear that my eyes are beautiful. In school I stubbornly read “insect” like “incest” (for the first time through the inattention, then – intentionally), and my teacher blushed – no-no, child, that’s quite a different thing. Then you had occasionally introduced me like your niece to your friends, and kissed me those evening, you dumb; kissed me so, that all your pattern academicians opened their mouths like they saw a giant female mantis committed you-know-what. Insect, incest.
And I escaped – here I am in the room without windows, though I’ve flounced – only because I was raged with the questions and gossips, in the foreign town, in foreign language, but constantly. Once, I’ve been grasped by the oldest and, as it should be, the most overrated academician, herr Goose (as known as Gus) and asked in English abortively coupled with Deutsch: “Nice fraulein, my question may be a bit unflätig, but how long have you been living with your – emmm – onkel?”. I said to that old Ziege with a sweet smile: the term “incest”, or “bloodmixing”, that’s on the tip of your tongue, is right only in the following case – if a couple (a brother and sister, cousins, an uncle and niece, grandfather and granddaughter) is going to have a posterity; if lovers (I mean lovers – the derivative of love, not violence or teenagers’ torments) aren’t able to childbear by reason of sterility of one or both partners, or just don’t wanna be continued in someone else (you see?) – then blo-od-mix-ing doesn’t threaten them, if only one of them won’t need a transfusion, but in such situation – well, you know. Gus still held me by his sweaty palm, and I broke free with wishing him luck and reverenced.
Algezeite Meinung – sorry, I’m so sleepy – even gave birth a little narrow article about a lecher’s family where everybody is sleeping and mixing with each other, and there is a badly printed picture of the Sodom house, look and walk away from it for avoiding the Hellfire. Because of your foolishness I couldn’t quietly leave my home. I didn’t find any paper, so I didn’t leave a note for you – that devil’s fire – so I used your two-day absence and escaped from a little high moral town to the immortal city, where my true uncle was waiting for me.
My happiness wasn’t long-lasting – only two mornings with the honey croissants. A heart attack on the workplace. Amazingly, how fearful the death is in the darkness of the room, in the shooting silence, when you’re falling down all the time, and how harmless and damn logical she is, that beauty with the black short hair, in the light of day. I’m sitting and waiting when I will be found and driven out. From fifty to forty, from thirty-seven to fifty-two, from Deutsch to French, East is lie, West is death. By no means – I don’t ask you about anything, I was so dumb, I chose the most harmful way. You know, I rarely thought about others – the past tense, you see – but what if you’ll forgive me. Trust, trust me: this letter is a child of guilt, not a distressful situation.
I could address to those who are still unnamed – and they could help me, any of them; but I address to you, though this letter may not reach you. Everything can be ruined in a moment. And here is a drop of my blood, mix it with anything you want, better with yours.
