Tidbits, glimpses, completeness

To stroke with fingertips over the cover of favorite tunes, to sip on a cup of hot tea while the snow falls oustide. To notice the orange streetlights seconds before sleep takes me away, to yearn for melting springsoil. To decide to take driving lessons, to talk away an hour or two with a distant dear friend just because I want to hear her soft voice in my ear, to long for other homes across seas and times. To wake up and eat german bread while the morning news connects you to the world. To sit in armchairs, trading time for daydreaming, to walk alone on frozen sand, through thick pine woods and arrive at open seashores. To watch high waves form foam when hitting the waterside cliffs, to hear changed voices of distant younger brothers, sisters.

To lie with eyes closed on sunwarm rocks in lonesome archipelagos, to eat freshly boiled fish during sunset, to drink cheap wine on moist lawns, to fall asleep in lukewarm summernights on a blanket beside another body somewhere in a metropolitan park. To spend time on a longdistance bus with my favourite author, on my way to meet a dear friend. To sink into the words from an admirable professor, to write down my life in one of those red-black covered notebooks, pick it up years later and laughingly read about myself. To head to foreign countries, to sit with a fully packed suitcase and butterflies in the stomach at the airport while people passing occupy my field of vision for half a second before I let them go.

To wake up completely rested, to hand in the first paper for the term, to borrow a movie about love and/for wine and watch it among friends, to borrow a book I've wanted to read for too long, start reading it and put it beside me on the bed time table, to briefly think of you as if you were beside me, to go through tomorrow's lecture, to turn off the light and fall asleep assured of everything's sudden completeness.