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Eine Flasche als Zeuge,zwei Gesichter, halb aus Farbe, halb aus Zeit. Rot denkt laut,Blau schweigt höflich,Grün schimmert wie ein Gedanke, der noch nicht darf. Die Linie taumelt,sie weiß nicht, ob sie zuhört oder trinkt. Hypothese: Gespräche sind Flüssigkeiten.Antithese: Flüssigkeiten reden zurück. Die Flasche hebt den Hals,nickt,wird kurz zum dritten Teilnehmer. DADA lächelt aus dem Etikett,sagt: Prost auf das Unausgesprochene,und verschwindetim letzten Strich.

A glass — cathedral of liquid blush.Inside, a leaf dreams of drowning elegantly. The bottle beside it hums in lowercase,green spine, amber echo. Someone forgot the meaning of cheers,so color took over the conversation. Yellow leaks like late sunlight;blue sharpens its tongue;magenta rehearses regret. Hypothesis: pleasure is translucent.Counter-hypothesis: so is memory. DADA lifts the stem,toasts the air,and drinks the pause between words —where art hides, slightly drunk,and grinning.

Three figures,one sentence split into color.They orbit an invisible idea,each syllable wearing a different hue. Cyan hums logic,red answers with weather,yellow forgets and forgives in the same motion. Lines stutter—black thinks it’s in control,but turquoise keeps rewriting the edges. Hypothesis: conversation is choreography.Counter-hypothesis: we dance to stay unreadable. DADA steps between them,whispers omns, the sacred nonsense,and the air folds open like an afterthought. For one second,the colors understand each other—and immediately deny it.

Two figures,half idea, half aftertaste,leaning toward the invisible. A hand mid-air,a word not yet invented.Between them — a cup,or maybe a question disguised as one. The ink breathes sideways.Perspective takes a cigarette break. Hypothesis: dialogue is a circular table.Counter-hypothesis: tables dream of being voices. Laughter dissolves in thin contour.Time folds into two elbows. DADA nods from the corner,orders another round of meaning,and drinks it — without outline.

This pigture is the holy mess of time itself—color riot, snout theology,halo of accidental genius. It oinks in all languages at once:cyan for memory,magenta for mischief,lime for the joke that life forgot to end. “Sauerei,” it says—and the word dances like wine on a napkin. Hypothesis: chaos wears empathy’s face.Counter-hypothesis: the face wears chaos too well. Synthesis:the pig looks at you,you look back,and neither of you knows who started existing first. DADA applauds with muddy… read more – weiterlesen Sauerei vom 09/10/25 (Dada Pig No. 20)

a glass remembers jazz,its rim hums a tired halo.the spoon—still dreaming in citrus dialect. a bottle stands beside,green spine of forgotten laughter.it knows too much about endings,too little about thirst. lines argue with perspective,colors collide like ex-lovers.shadows flirt in lowercase. hypothesis: time ferments quietly.counter-hypothesis: so do we. DADA lifts the tablecloth,finds the universe underneath,sticky with sugar,radiant with spill.

Je suis couleur avant d’être chair.Rose parle, bleu se tait,et moi—je flotte entre les deux. L’œil gauche croit encore au sens,le droit doute, respire, attend. Ligne après ligne, je me perds dans ma propre esquisse.Être, c’est trembler sous un feutre humide. L’univers? un carnet froissé.Dieu? peut-être la tache turquoise près du menton. Je souris, mal découpé,ironiquement vivant. Hypothèse: l’absurde porte un visage.Antithèse: le visage est une question sans bouche. Synthèse: DADA éclate de rire—rire comme… read more – weiterlesen Visage en Fragment (Dada Existentialiste No. 18)

Striche taumeln wie Gespräche nach Mitternacht,Tinte riecht nach Spätburgunder und Neon. Sie sitzen im Kreis aus Zufall,Gesichter aus Kommas,Lachen in Kursivschrift. Die Gläser reden lauter als die Menschen,die Luft hat schon einen kleinen Schwips. Hypothese: Müdigkeit ist nur ein Aggregatzustand von Nähe.Antithese: Nähe ist ein Missverständnis mit Stil. Jemand sagt Prost,jemand anderes nickt in Zeitlupe,und das Papier zeichnet heimlich mit. Hier wird die Nacht konserviert,in Linien, die sich weigern, gerade zu bleiben. DADA hebt das… read more – weiterlesen Die Absacker-Gruppe im Motel One (Dada Nr. 17)

This is a magenta confession—a storm caught mid-blush,its mouth rehearsing unfinished alphabets. Eyes shaped like questions,half doors, half traps for memory.Black lines hum in octaves of maybe. Hypothesis: the face remembers music.Counter-hypothesis: the music drew the face. The pink horizon folds inward,cheeks speak in ultraviolet riddles. Laughter bends into a crescent scar.Language liquefies,becomes lipstick,becomes myth. DADA nods from the mirror:“Color is a verb,and you—you are its sentence.”

Glasses lean closer than people do.Conversation fizzes, collapses, reforms—like beer foam reciting philosophy. No color, only tremor.Ink wobbles into recognition:faces as parentheses,sentences half-drunk, half-remembered. Hypothesis: laughter is the true punctuation.Counter-hypothesis: silence is liquid too. Bottles stand like exclamation marks—thin, proud, slightly dizzy.Hands orbit the center of maybe. The table hums a secret toast:to the art of unfinished evenings,to the chorus of unsteady lines,to the fragile grammar of together.