“I see a black dove. I see its face clearly. The dove is transparent, like it is made of ice. I can see my hand through it.” (Die Zeit, November 11, 1999)

She is so small inside of her blanket fort, telling a fairytale to herself.

We are eavesdroppers. Fly, she coos. You don’t need a spaceship. The galaxy will guide you back to the source. Find the center. Find the spark.

Every time the song dilates for a chorus it never quite recedes back to its previous size. The world expands, the voice gets surer.

She will not be the devil, but she will lie with the snakes, her sisters.

Does she really feel that cold? She never let on how insane it was in that tiny, kinda scary house. The stars she is following, they have already died.

On the other side of the galaxy.