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 universe:
blue is heavier than memory,
it sinks to the bottom of the canvas
and drags yesterday down with it in slow motion,
während rot nervös darüber tapst,
a jittery DJ scratching along the fracture lines,
playing an eternal remix of “maybe, maybe not.”

Second law:
yellow is contagious optimism,
it seeps through neighboring shapes
until even the most exhausted violet
develops a small, ridiculous hope
that today the gravity of routines will be cancelled,
ausgesetzt, passé,
like a tram strike announced in seven languages at once.

Third law (which contradicts the first two, naturellement):
everything that touches grey becomes a corridor,
a Übergang, a halfway-thought,
a place you pass through while you are still buffering,
unsure whether you are solid, liquid, or punchline.

I walk along these silver faultlines,
each one a border between maybe-me and maybe-you,
and the lines keep glitching,
flickering from wall to window to wound to joke,
to Ach, egal, to portal,
while a background chorus of pigments chants quietly:
ici, ici, ici / hier, hier, hier / now, never, soon.

In the upper left corner a tiny teal trapezoid
filed a complaint against Euclidean logic,
claiming emotional overtime and lack of perspective,
so the court of colors meets at noon,
presided over by a purple parallelogram
mit äußerst relationalem Verständnis von Recht,
and sentences the whole composition
to indefinite abstraction with possible breaks for coffee.

Meanwhile a diagonal red strip remembers
its past life as a staircase,
where people once carried their groceries,
their divorce papers,
their unsent messages and Monday headaches,
step by step,
until one day the staircase retired
and dissolved into pure inclination,
a simple urge to go elsewhere
without specifying coordinates.

I lean against a cobalt wall that might be sky,
might be sea,
might be unprocessed inbox,
and it leans back, surprisingly soft,
like a beanbag full of old verbs:
to become, zu kippen, se renverser,
to maybe start again at an odd angle,
not 90°, not 45°,
but that tender crooked degree
you get when you admit you have no idea
what you’re doing,
and keep doing it anyway.

In the lower corner a green shard grows impatient,
sprouting tiny theoretical football fields,
each one a diagram of possible passes
between one bright idea and another,
while the ball itself is invisible,
lost somewhere between magenta offside lines
and a referee made of lime-colored silence.

The picture coughs once, politely.
All the colors rearrange their biographies.
Blue declares it was never melancholic, just deep.
Red admits to occasional drama but claims good intentions.
Yellow files for polyamory:
it wants to glow with everyone at once.

A voice, maybe mine, maybe pigment-generated,
starts a small union for overworked edges,
Gewerkschaft der Gestressten Kanten,
demanding softer shifts and more holidays,
so some lines quit their jobs as borders
and become paths instead,
and suddenly there is a way through the painting,
a wonky footpath of half-finished decisions.

I stroll along it humming la la vielleicht la,
picking up tiny triangles of yesterday’s certainties,
using them as improvised confetti,
tossing them into the chromatic air,
where they spin and spin and spin
until they forget which side was front.

DADA BREAK:
blipp blopp blau,
kantig-cantique,
zig-zag zukunft? – zack.

By evening (which arrives from the center, not from the sky),
the universe folds itself into a compact prism,
ready to slide into a pocket
next to keys, coins, unanswered letters,
ein bisschen Schweineglück in Reserve.

I close my eyes and feel the faultlines purr,
soft tectonics of color under the skin,
every edge a small rebellion against straightness,
every shade a micro-yes to staying weird.

Morgen, sagt das Bild,
we fracture again differently.
Morgen, sage ich,
and try on a new angle for my own face,
hoping to reflect at least one stubborn turquoise,
one unreasonable yellow belief,
and a tiny magenta pig of courage
snuffling cheerfully between the cracks of the day.