I see a mossy lake in your lungs giving bearth to some bony birds flying out of Sweden while some of us sitting at the edge of Zürich with hair like firs of Black Forest. I decided to join but forgot the breath of my brain somewhere near Ferrette, France, walking along a stony cross in the silver sky. A jungle man below me, sruby fog, is gobbled up by unpainted paintings: with the frequency of his bones we could build a palace for the elks.

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‘A parallelogram is a telegram from a parallel world,’
a being in a red hat says, taking out a little notebook.

‘Let me give you my coordinates.’ And instead of latitude
and longitude, as Space Gulliver expects, the being,

whose hat is now an obscure shade of ochre, reels off
a series of sounds like horses neighing, like vowels

and consonants, like numbers from a nightmare.
‘Whether you find me is immaterial,’ the being says,

sounding like himself again, in other words, sounding
like wind in the trees, snow on the grass, willows weeping

into water. ‘It’s the Houyhnhnm that counts.’
There are many beings here, roaming the ether.

Are they real? Is that a parking meter? A lamp post?
So this, Space Gulliver thinks, is what travelling means.

Sampurna Chattarji

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Ingrid Wiener: Erste Schritte auf dem Weg zu Bayes # 11, Gobelin 2007, 34×50cm nach Blei- und Filzstiftnotizen auf DIN A4

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So wie eine Hand aus Wasserfall, eine Föhre aus Flamingo, eine Lilie aus Pupille und schliesslich, wenn der Nebel wiederkehrt, verschwimmt unsere Sicht auf den gewässerten Februar. Insektenblut drängt in die ungemalten Bilder der Netzhaut. Wir graben Faustkeile aus der Nacht und schnitzen daraus neue Gesichter. Es surren so viele Fliegen rum, die weder lesen noch schreiben können. Aber ein Eierbecher hat auch kein Gedächtnis, das beruhigt.