Some audio texts

  

Lost stories

 

Lost stories fly like dust through the streets.

Invisible.

Older, mature stories become sticky and cling to the walls,

walls of houses, city walls, garden walls

a thin film invisible.

You walk through the streets.

Your hands glide along the walls

Your fingers are curled.

Intensifying.

’In the evening, you take the yellow from under your nails

A mixture of stories that you warm on a spoon until they become liquid.

Tip the spoon into a glass of cold water

the yellow solidifies and floats to the surface.

Look at that shape

She tells something about you

about your past

your future.

Take the mold out of the glass, place them on your tongue.

She melts

The saliva tastes bitter

the pupils dilate.

You slowly slide into a dream.

  

The square whispered

 

Words became visible in the stones

as if they were being pushed up from below

across the entire square

we were scared

fear of the contents.

“Perhaps the street knows no lies?”

“What if these words contain truths?”

“We could lose our faith.”

“The economy would collapse.”

“We wouldn't dare look each other in the eye anymore.”

“We need black paint!” shouts someone who was slowly beginning to understand what words could mean.

“Oh, the asphalt is awful! We need to re-asphalt the streets!”

“Get the children off the street!”

“Make sure they can't look outside”

“Where do those words come from? Who wrote them?“

The conversations spread through the city. As quickly as words appeared on the cobblestones.

“As long as the words don't form sentences, it might not hurt,” was muttered.

“Perhaps we can form sentences ourselves and add words.”

“We're making our own stories!”

And we made our own stories.

Stories that reassured us.

In no time, everyone was in the square with a paintbrush in one hand and a white paint bucket in the other.

We painted the town like madmen.

Verbs, articles, adjectives, proper nouns, ...

‘The next day, all the words in the stones had disappeared.

All that remained were words in white paint.

Everyone looked out the window in horror. The children who could read covered their eyes.

Our words formed sentences.

Sentences that express our desires.

Sentences describing the most extreme fantasies.

Sentences that tried so hard to hide the truth that they became the truth themselves.

Pumps are emptied and filled with water.

We came out onto the street with scrubbing brushes.

We tried not to look at each other.

We tried not to read what we had written.

  

Thoughts

 

As you press your body into the soft grass

You lie on a tarred street with your arms open, looking at the same clouds.

Are they the same thoughts drifting by?

  Water 

It is said that a city is not livable without water.

In the late days, we stand at the edge of the canal, musing

losing ourselves

into the transparent mass

a dive down

in my thoughts

liquefied

we let go of our stories

our ideas

our emotions

our secrets.

Floating

weightless between dream and reality.

This way we find ourselves hours later with our hands on our heads.

When our thoughts touch the water's surface, they light up in thousands, millions of little lights.

Normally, water repels stories.

But a few can penetrate the surface and remain hidden for years, sometimes centuries, in the darkest corners.

And suddenly, without reason, they rise like bubbles.

Later that water is sucked up

filtered and transported through pipes

until it flows out of the taps in the living rooms

to wash vegetables

to make coffee

hot bath

evaporated with fragrant oils.

Chemicals such as chlorine have been added

Microbes cannot survive.

But the stories remain

They are trapped in the H2O molecule. That one oxygen atom carries our ripe, hidden daydreams.

A magical, unspeakable feeling settles in our stomachs when drinking in such stories. It gives you a sense that you understand something, but you don't know exactly what.

Is that why water is one of the most important foodstuffs?