Since he has been in hospital, Gabriel with the skill of
a conjurer steals knives and scalpels. With them, he slits
the veins in his forearm to squeeze out the stone dust that
has formed into clots, which shackle his joints at the slightest
twitch of the hand. The voices of death and the wails of
dying patients that echo eerily in the hospital colors, especially
at night, do not reach him.
Since he has been in hospital, Gabriel with
the skill of a conjurer steals knives and scalpels.With
them, he slits the veins in his forearm to squeeze out
the stone dust that has formed into clots, which shackle
his joints at the slightest twitch of the hand. The voices
of death and the wails of dying patients that echo eerily
in the hospital colors, especially at night, do not reach
him.
Nobody suspects that Gabriel is emulating the solitude
of the rock. He neither wants nor permits anyone's to inhabit
his wasteland. He strains to keep for himself at all costs
that nothing of his, which is all that has left. Before
he jumbled fairground of senseless passage of time his
sand-filled honeycomb beats the hour of the bee's infallible
precision and of the mute moments of transience which are
thrown into the crevices of nothingness where his long-delivered
mail is pilling up; where the thirst for the irreversibly
vanished days, months and years is stowed away; where the
countless sleepless nights and the deadened echoes of the
hammer's blow are straining to revive and where the muffled
chipping of the chisel in the heart of the stone are striving
to be heard anew. His calloused hands with more sand in
them than in blood flesh and bones want for the last time
to grasp the force emanating from the skull and turning
into the essence of light...
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