Dr. Stephan Pflaum

The architect had forgotten to install gravity on Tuesday, so the corridor stood upright inside itself. Red insisted it was ceiling. Blue claimed to be floor. Neither could prove their position because geometry had stopped taking sides. “I remember being horizontal,” Purple murmured from what might have been a wall. “We’re all horizontal if you … Read more

Der Architekt baute einen Turm, der aus allen Richtungen gleichzeitig bestiegen werden konnte, weshalb niemand je ankam. Die türkisfarbenen Wände erinnerten sich an die Zukunft, die gelben Balken vergaßen die Gegenwart, und das Blau dazwischen tat so, als wäre es nie gebaut worden. “Wie hoch ist er?” fragte ein Passant, der von unten nach innen … Read more

Der Archivar kam morgens in die Bibliothek und fand, dass sie über Nacht eine zusätzliche Ecke gewachsen hatte. Das war das dritte Mal diese Woche. Er seufzte und begann, die Bücher umzusortieren, damit sie in die neue Geometrie passten. “Entschuldigen Sie,” sagte Violett von der linken Wand, “aber könnten Sie etwas leiser atmen? Sie stören … Read more

Die Architektin folgte dem blauen Korridor, der behauptete, er führe nirgendwohin, was sie als gutes Zeichen deutete. Rot versperrte ihr zweimal den Weg—einmal von links, einmal von der Zukunft—aber sie wusste, dass man Farben nicht trauen durfte, wenn sie Meinungen hatten. “Ist dies der Weg?” fragte sie eine Wand. Die Wand schwieg rosa, was soviel … Read more

Der Gärtner säte Feuer in parallelen Reihen. Jedes Samenkorn war eine kleine Flamme, die er vorsichtig in die Erde drückte, wo sie sofort zu wachsen begann—nicht nach oben, sondern nach innen, in die Vergangenheit hinein. Die schwarzen Linien waren Zäune, die er gezogen hatte, um das Rot davon abzuhalten, sich an andere Farben zu erinnern. … Read more

The gardener planted doors that morning, watering them with yesterday’s light. By noon they had grown into rooms, their walls soft as membrane, their corners humming in turquoise and pink. She walked between them with scissors, pruning the yellow thoughts that leaked from the ceiling-soil. “Excuse me,” said a shape that was neither square nor … Read more

The platform was a hallway. The hallway was also a prism. Every wall had forgotten its original color and was trying out new identities—yellow one moment, violet the next, pink in the interstitial spaces where decisions hadn’t yet been made. Herr Schwarz sat at his usual table, though the table had no business being there. … Read more

The left vase contained seventeen pink tulips and the memory of a Thursday. The right vase held nine blue flowers that had never been named and the future tense of forgetting. Between them lay the question no one dared to answer. “One of us is superfluous,” said the left vase. “Yes,” agreed the right vase. … Read more

The architect drew blueprints in emotions. Pink meant indecision, yellow stood for forgotten lunch appointments, and violet represented all the letters one writes but never sends. The building grew not upward but inward, each floor a layer of consciousness stacked at impossible angles. Only the gray cube refused to participate. It sat there—stubborn, silent, rectangular—in … Read more

They arrived through different doors that opened into the same wall. Herr Violett brought his voice in a jar, but the lid was rusted shut. Frau Grün spoke only in gestures her hands had forgotten, and the third—who had no color and therefore no name—read aloud from a newspaper printed tomorrow. “We must begin,” said … Read more