My legs turn into a restless mind and as restless as both the mind and the legs is the feeling of watching a fly trace rectangular shapes in the third quarter of, for example, my living room.
A longer pause between the entrance and the exit of a thought reminds me of the flesh and skin I am moving within.
Skin forming itself into architecture. Being in sync, being scaled towards architecture.The similarity between the thick wall of plaster and my inner wall of skin is not material but poetic.
Heidi Bucher und das Gefühl morgen auseinander fallen zu können.
Protecting something inner from something outer. Marking a border that cannot be drawn very strictly.
My voice is an organ too and it can wander through walls and disband anywhere. Maybe inhabiting some other body without me being conscious of it.

A body full of words wants to be emptied. That’s why.
People can cut you short. They can open your doors unasked- slam them open or worse not shut them again. Warm air gets lost on its way between the private and the shared.

A Room of One’s Own. I need to possess a real room in order to create a fictional one.

Private air gets lost on its way to the shared.
It becomes a question of temperature.
Searching for something warm, like a fly in the corner of my living room. A question of evenness, in the sense of a grid. Each grid is the same and yet it communicates another depth. Same entry, different exit. All even, different evenness.