So many humans. So many colours. They keep triggering inside me. They harass my memory. I see them tall in their heaps, all mounted on top of each other. There is air like plastic, a horizon like setting glue. There are skies manufactured by people, punctured and leaking, and there are soft, coal-coloured clouds, beating, like black hearts. And then. There is death. Making his way through all of it. On the surface: unflappable, unwavering. Below: unnerved, untied, and undone.

He watched them grow, until eventually, great forests of words had risen throughout Germany.... It was a nation of farmed thoughts.

The city buildings in the distance are holding up the sky, it seems.

Somewhere in all the snow, she could see her broken heart, in two pieces.

It would then be brought abruptly to an end, for the brightness had shown suffering the way.

I am hunted by humans.

Only hearts... They're in the inside of the inside of me.