Franz K.

Winter had arrived in Berlin. When the grey clouds move over the city, Berlin looks like a large room with a high ceiling, like a stage for a story. A story in which the sun, behind the clouds, yields its place to the moon. The image of the moon behind the grey clouds left a bright point in my imagination; one could not see the moon, but its existence flowed through Berlin's narrative. There are things whose presence one can still feel in Berlin. For example: Kafka sometimes drops by this city and ends up at the end of my story. Berlin is the only story that truly exists. In haste I took my old habits with me; my eyes were as restless as my steps, and from the scattered lights of the street they formed abstract images. Suddenly, like a wild horse, a quick turn of my head threw my gaze down from above the railway bridge. My eyes had to follow the course of the tracks into the depth, and there, where they narrowed to a point in the infinite, I could make out a more complete image: a tall, dark silhouette stretching into the sky, a mighty structure, perhaps a hundred years old or more. Involuntarily I took a few steps forward. The closer I came, the bigger it grew and the smaller I became. Perhaps it was precisely the smallness of the door that no longer let me hesitate before it and gave me, before I became still more of a stranger, the courage to enter. When I entered, the scent of coffee and wood had conquered the room. I hung my North Face jacket next to a classic coat on the hook. I sat down on a chair in the corner. Before me sat a man; steam still rose from his coffee. He seemed wholly absorbed in writing. I stepped a little closer, curious to see his words. One word followed another, flowed onto the paper. My eyes had to glide over the sheet several times before I finally read this sentence:

“The reader of this text is drawn down with its author into the depth of this page.”

Signed with respect:

Perhaps Franz K.