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English below: The Reverse Ascent – Chapter 1: The Turquoise Awakening Am Morgen, als die Wände noch grau waren, wusste ich nicht, dass ich bereits im Inneren der Treppe lebte. Die Säulen standen verkehrt herum – nicht im architektonischen Sinn, sondern im zeitlichen. Sie waren noch nicht gebaut, sondern erinnerten sich an ihre zukünftige Errichtung. Türkis strömte durch sie hindurch wie gefrorener Atmen. Ich berührte eine der Oberflächen und meine Hand wurde blau. Nicht bemalt…. read more – weiterlesen Kapitel 1: Das türkisfarbene Erwachen der Treppe

This one is a narrow corridor of maybe,a vertical slice of half-remembered city,where colors stand around like strangerswaiting for a delayed metaphor. It is not a pigture,no snout, no curly tail,only a yellow thoughttrying to push its waythrough an overbooked hallway of rectangles. At the top left a chunk of lemon-yellowleans down like an impatient question:So, what are you doing with your life today?Directly beneath it, lilac shrugs,cyan rolls its eyes,and magenta pretends to check… read more – weiterlesen This is The Waiting Room of Unsent Emails

This is clearly not a pigture,this is a stack of argumentssomeone forgot to finishand accidentally built as a house. The room: pink like a shy migraine,corners smudged,walls humming bubblegum philosophy.In the middle standsthe tower of colorful contradictions,three floors of “yes, but also no,”with balconies in fluorescent compromise. Ground floor:a turquoise block saysWELCOME TO THE STORAGE OF UNSAID THINGS.Inside, pastels of former conversationslean against one another,crates labelledLATER / ANOTHER TIME / DON’T ROCK THE BOAT.A ramp… read more – weiterlesen WELCOME TO THE STORAGE OF UNSAID THINGS.

The neon architect overslept,so the crayons held an emergency meetingand passed the following motion: Somebody wrote it downon a magenta girderand the building immediatelyfailed every inspection in town,which made it officially DADA-compliant. I step into the hallway of impossible oranges,the floor made of leftover sunsets,the ceiling a blue Mondaystretched to maximum anxiety,and between themstands a column of yellowthat insists on being called “hopein high-visibility clothing.” On the left,a vertical parade of reds and purplestries to… read more – weiterlesen This is not a pigture,this is a corridor that forgot its wallsand kept only the colors.

The day cracks open along a turquoise seam,electric blue hums like a refrigerator halo,magenta leans against yellow and whispers bon matin,and somewhere a silent pig of light rearranges its snout of angles. I wake up inside this polygon planet,where every edge is a sentence that forgot its verb,where corners are shy gods practicing social distancing,where rectangles try on new identities and become almost-triangles,wo die Flächen atmen und niemand den Takt vorgibt. First law of this… read more – weiterlesen Prismatic Faultline Pigment Party

The sky is a folded envelopefull of unsent Ferienpostkarten.Every cloud is a lost corner of yesterday,drifting, saying: bonjour, encore, again. The wind moves diagonally,von links unten nach rechts oben,because straight lines were outlawedin this valley of politely exploding colors. First law:all rivers here flow away from meaningand only sometimes back to the sea. Second law:water remembers every geometry lessonit ever failed.That’s why it bends in abrupt blue sentences,comma, comma, Zickzack,never a full stop. Third law:if… read more – weiterlesen Origami River Parliament

The sky has been ironed smooth,a single sheet of turquoisepinned to the top of the day. Against it, the building hesitates,leaning like a sentencethat forgot where to put the verb.Beams slash across the picture,black and purple,as if someone underlined realityagain and againuntil it began to tilt. Behind the beams: panes.Yellow, lime, orange,a shy mint green,a corridor of lavender decisions.They look like candythat accidentally grew upand became architecture. Every window in this househas a personality disorder…. read more – weiterlesen Sky-Blue Elevator for Disobedient Windows

The bookshelf forgot its job.It woke up one morningand decided to become a staircase,then changed its mindand rearranged itself into a sideways sigh. Shelves leaned on each otherlike drunk rectangles after a conference,swapping business cards of color:“Hi, I’m turquoise, specialized in impossible angles.”“Nice to meet you, I’m magenta,currently researching the sociology of falling over.” Somewhere in this vertical mazethere used to be books,quiet citizens of paper democracy.But one by one they slipped out of their… read more – weiterlesen Tilted Magenta Bookshelf Sonata

The air is lime-green silence,a rectangle of grasslight humming behind my skull.My neck is a question mark in red,curved from too much listening to booksthat never learned how to end. I hold a folded piece of paper—or is it a door,or is it a very shy wing?The thumb is yellow, as if it once was sunand forgot to turn itself off. “Lies doch,” the book whispers,though nobody wrote the sentences yet.I read the blank pages… read more – weiterlesen Emerald Reader in the Library of Bent Faces

An angel got stuck in the ceiling.That’s how it starts. Not a glorious, oil-painted angel,just a sketch with tired wings,hovering in neon lilac skyabove a crowd that forgotit was a crowd. The wings are mostly marker strokes,the kind you draw in a hurryon the corner of a meeting agendawhile someone says “synergy”for the fourth time.But here they are doctrine:two flapping parenthesesaround a face that lookssuspiciously like your tired neighbour. Below, the people. They lean left,… read more – weiterlesen Paradise Lost and Found (On Sale, Second Floor)