This man sits on a chair by the sea. It is the sea of
feelings, but it knows nothing of this. The sea has no
understanding of art and literature. The man is surrounded by
effigies who will eventually topple forward, burying their
pointed noses buried in the sand. But what do THEY know of this?
The chair is a sign.
And the spirits rising from the sea at night, assume the
characters of hieroglyphics rather than angels (or something
similar that might threaten to Bow into pure infinity).
The man, meanwhile, is not a sign. He is the center of the world,
and is nauseous. His entire midriff is one blackened mass,
whilst sealed upon the chair trapped both within himself and
between the abnormally elongated and totally untrustworthy
The man has journeyed through the forest in order to reach
the sea. One may assume that it is a relatively peaceful forest.
We can forget the enchanted labyrinth. We can forget Grimm. The
brush is the machete.
Before entering the forest, the man lay in the embrace of his
woman, and during those weeks, a vast golden joy Filled many of
the days and nights. Though it is a miracle, the lovers do not
consider it odd that they are blessed with a daughter, whom they
In precisely the same way that the sea is unaware that it is
the sea of feelings, so Petra has no knowledge of the fad that
her name is derivative of Peter, let alone the reason for this.
And despite this abundance of soaring joy, the man has set
himself upon a chair beside the broiling ocean after his long
and solitary wanderings in the forest. And whilst he sits there,
sway-backed and dizzy, speculating about how long youth should
celebrate it's own pathos, murder grows within him.
He must venture forth, seek out his origins and hack them to
pieces, blending this mush into his own colours.
The blood, the lymph, the brain matter, the atomised nerve
fibres and the now totally shortened furrows must go into the
pail with the paint to be stirred round and round in the blue
and yellow, red and brown. And then this mighty death can be
ressurected again on each of the empty canvasses insistently
blowing round inside his head.
Yes, this man sits on a chair by the sea.
They once attempted to murder him with their noses. But right
now the noses are either hammered into the sand like carrots of
stone, or blended together in the great paint-pots.
Ordinarily the man is extremely modest, but when he finally gets
a taste of the world, he takes so many and such large bites that
one is inclined to think he will manage everything in just a few
swallows; that he will devour the entire universe in seconds.
Otherwise he is quiet and reserved and, as stated, extremely
modest. Upon his chair. Holding a small and bloody nose in his