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Life is too short for boring stories

My thoughts move on. They won’t let me rest and they relentlessly take me to a place I actually didn’t want to go back to, ever. But I have given up the lead and have to surrender to her will, which is probably mine too, but which I had so successfully stopped up to now. …

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When we got back to the terrace and I finished my story, I mustered up the courage to turn and hug her. I could still feel her hugging me back as our lips drew closer and just as they touched, just as I felt her soft, warm lips on mine, we were suddenly torn apart. …

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Of all the nights that I woke up and went back to sleep, there were very, very few in which I was truly lonely. Not just alone, but lonely, like an outcast who no longer even finds a connection point to a you in my mind, whose isolation consists not only of a physical, but …

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You’re right, of course, it’s been a long time. If I try to remember now, it is as if a whole life would lie between the time when you were you to me and the today when you stepped out of which you left me as an empty shell of you. And isn’t that really …

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„Du musst Dich rüsten“, höre ich mich sagen. Eine letzte Umarmung noch, bevor wir uns verabschieden müssen. Ein letztes Mal noch ineinander verwoben und zurückfallen lassen in die Unbeschwertheit und Sorglosigkeit. Ich will es nicht denken, dass es einen Abschied geben kann. Ich konnte es nicht denken, dass es ein Ankommen geben konnte.

Mark despondently dropped his hands. Now that he was so close to Yvonne, he seemed speechless. There was this tough, energetic girl who didn’t turn away from him, but even asked him to tell his story and he, with his inner and outer mutilations. He noticed how good she smelled. He stole his gaze over …

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Onto came and went as he pleased. Sometimes he flew along on our walks and disappeared again. It was nice to watch him, in his power and joy that gives the young life. In what intensity was it connected to life, it cost, scooped it up, without its current becoming less and less. On the …

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You get used to it. Onto had become part of our little family because we had become familiar, met and accepted each other in our respective so-being. „Just as you are,“ I said to myself,“ to supplement immediately, „and will become. In the one in which you are constant and in the one in which …

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The morning looks like every morning. That getting up was not easy for me, it has always been that way, I got used to it and take it, like the drizzle that knocks on the windowpane. Almost tender, but it’s the time when I’m too busy with myself to notice anything. Quite banal stuff. Put …

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From the first day we die. Not metaphorically, not allegorically, but really. Every day that passes, we have a day less. Every day a little death. Of course, in the beginning, there is still a construction, the illusion of becoming. How long? A few years? One and a half decades? And yet only illusion, because …

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