Eines Tages, dachte ich, werde ich sprechen können, ganz leicht und frei. Es ist noch zu früh, aber ist es nicht immer zu früh? Sollte ich mich nicht einfach hinsetzen an diesen Tisch, unter diese Lampe, das Papier zurechtrücken, den Stift nehmen und anfangen? Was bleibt. Was meinem Leben zugrundeliegt und woran ich zugrunde gehe. Dass es kein Unglück gibt außer dem, nicht zu leben. Und am Ende keine Verzweiflung außer der, nicht gelebt zu haben.
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