Scarlet Rouge


I stare people in the eyes without smiling.

What is it that beautifies under the name of autumn? Is it not the aesthetics of fall?: of drops of clairvoyance and of leaves and of misty plains and of frozen loafs of earth and of frosty showers from grey dead skinny skies – is it not „them“? Yes. Yes, it is this wooden nakedness of fingers that yearn without painting. It is the feeling of loss. Irreversible, not irreparable. It is birds that cease to sing, and start to cry. And it is the honesty some call decay. For we can rely on life to come back with the screams of colour. Still will it come back when there are still layers of cotton on still paling bodies. (Do you hear the mourning of the hemisphere’s dusk? The omnipresence, the feast, the all-embracement of solitude?)

What is it that beautifies under the name of winter? It is the scared puddle beneath shivering brows looking for warmth before turning to stone. It is the one melancholy within the knowledge that nothing ever ends, and everything continues forever. It is the veto against all narratives of last times. It is simply beauty – birthing itself. It is if I woke up: We can rely on life.

We can rely…


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