I am not feeling well.
My bathwater is black and sloshing over my bathtub and under my eyelids my sleep is black.
The doctor attributes this to arterial sclerosis. He says the blood in my head has thickened and is hollow.
Which in the village is called waiting. In the village they are hushed. In the village they are resting when everything tumbles over.
Way below the mountains, there across the plains. I am not well and the town is roaming down a road that has no direction, going somewhere or other.
* composed of the notes and scribbles I made while reading Herta Müller's Nadirs
Rings of Saturn