He was wild and bald. His long, grey beard reached all the way to the ground. His body was wrinkled, white birthmarks and scars covered it, and waves emanated from it – madness, growth, longing, the need to copulate.
“Let the earthlings sleep, little brother,” his sister said. “I will scorch them tomorrow. They need rest.”
But he was not satisfied. He persistently drove himself into ever higher levels of agitation. And one day he sat in a flat in West Berlin together with a sad, dark woman, who played the guitar. He was high, tried to listen, but couldn’t. His soul dripped into the floorboard, and there he saw the soles of leather shoes, the invention of the new man, the invention of ugliness, and the fall of all decency.
That night he talked to his sister: “I regret. I always regret. But the wolf at my heels makes me lose control.”
Sol comforted him. “They need madness and longing, they need to fuck and weep – like they need to devour. Like they need to kill. You constantly look into the tender, silent blackness – but remember: everything is always burning.”
She was a shining beauty – her wagon splendid, her horses named. His wagon was a wreck with bite marks of hatred, his horses were nameless.
