After each time it is equally dead. The imaginary rain will paint the yard in a rather darker shade of grey. An entirely anonymous story, no one is there, crumpled bedclothes with a quickly-vanishing stain in the shape of a body and an open window. The boy undressed, stood, absorbed. Through the hole in the roof, the sky was speaking, through the sky, however, the birds were speaking, with the birds, the hands of a deaf-mute God were speaking.
Great goodness proceeds from deaf-mutes.
The bottom of the cellar is paved in the same way as the sky, but in the cellar are born only white and blind animals. If, unconcerned, you insert a hand into the very centre of the rotting remains - you can feel a tiny little heart, an eternally moving beginning. A great noise up above. Upstairs today holiday. Through the cellar window you can see only hobnailed boots.