HE TALKS ABOUT LOVE. He talks about the one, true love. And he talks about suffering. He says whatever he says has nothing to do with his past. He says he first encountered love as a child. He says a man took him on and chastised him. He says it with a smile. He has forgotten that the now has nothing to do with the past.
Lake Constance is like a bottomless mirror. I sit with my back against the rear tire and hear him talking. I hope he will simply die. That he will be consumed with hunger. But he’s stubborn. He doesn’t think of dying. He has plans for the future when this is all over.
He talks about pain and closeness and hunger and pleasure. He says that if you haven’t discovered all of those things in your life you’re not really living. And he waits for me to react. I sit where I am and say nothing. I’d really like to put my hand in his mouth and reach deep into his gullet until I get to his damned heart.
I didn’t find the shack. There’s a campsite in the place where we turned in to the forest more than six years ago. I didn’t stop. Tears came into my eyes, I was so shocked that nothing remained of the past.
No shack, no memory, everything faded.
He says he sees no reason for apologies. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to apologize for. Everything is based on instinct. Evil is the shadow of good, but no one thinks that good might be the shadow of evil. He coughs and wants some water. A gentle drizzle begins, I lift my face up and see a seagull. It lands on one of the rocks. Is it thinking? What is it thinking? I wish I were the seagull. I wouldn’t think anything. I’d just be glad to be a seagull.