Hardly anything

There is more to this whole charade than a kind of succinct observation of how the mask got drunk then and now. Looking back, I seem to have been born to endless reflection as a teenager; what I could have become with the right support is one of the points that I therefore push so much in the here and now ejaculation in mentorship and coaching.

But as an introduction and in the conquest of the meanwhile cultivated field of opposing disgraceful provincial but intelligent and sometimes strong-nerved Austrian

Contemporary provincial narrow-gauge literature

I can dare to do this.

In this country, toads often cook with stale water, so I no longer have to hide in student dormitories and council housing indifference, I am easily welcome in the club.

And I also see things less angrily, in my revaluation, my Nietzscheanism, my Rimbaud-like flight to Africa, thirty years later I can love a thousand times more things, on the one hand because there are a thousand times more things worth loving, on the other hand because this dull Austria may still exist, but fortunately has to share its place in the sun with a Mediterranean Austria that celebrates the art of living and thirsts for knowledge and sustainability, which sometimes just lacks doing the right thing at the right time.

And not to let the small-town, soup-clad clown of the crony economy-farmers' cathedral country win again just because he controls the funding drip. Where the opium of the liberal Green artist's heart and do-gooder(s) quickly creeps into the moneykink of bicycle courier service satisfaction.

Where are the audible voices of our younger generation of writers, my age? Are they bleeding away in silence, or are they all work-abroaders, as I imagine? A Kohlmeier must save the day together with Menasse, while modernity is going to the dogs, drinking at the feeding trough. Sometimes Zobelt and Mitterrerd do it, but all in all it is the great nothingness that describes Austrian literature.

There is no end to alcohol and no dog to be found, spirits are divided. The old school is a runny-nosed dreamer who is easy to see through, and the liver prefers other things, the body tells you when you have to grow up when it comes to drugs.

IMMODERATION HAS TO BE LEARNT, I REPORT ON IT IN THE PSYCHEDELIC GARDEN, IN THE OBSESSIONS, WHICH ARE ALSO CONFESSIONS, AND ELSEWHERE. AND THEN SUDDENLY THERE IS NO LONGER ANY SUCH THING, AND DOLCE BECOMES VITA. IS CALLED MATURE NATURE

Also that it is language that captures us, that we always fall back on it, in cosy harmony literati rule the world, in instruction manuals, in screenplays, in interviews, in public speeches, in speeches, advertising slogans, in FAQs, in Wikipedia, in X Files and in legal texts.

In dialogue, in internal dialogue, a visual artist will rebel, a filmmaker will resist and try to use what he is based on. Silent films are rarely made, however, and I compromise, in the same spirit, in a dance of word and image, what we create is our choice.

I don't think the new mask of the writer will be such a thin one, it's been too easy for me since the dam broke, but I need precision and organisation, even in the act of writing itself.

WHEN THE RED SQUARE OF INGENUITY PUTS YOUR KREMLIN IN YOUR PERSONAL HARRODS LIKE A BARBIE DOLLHOUSE, WHEN ENVIABILITY SUPPORTS NEW HEIGHTS, WHEN THE OPERATING SYSTEM ACHIEVES LUCIDITY, THEN RIMBAUD HAS RETURNED HOME FROM AFRICA. AND I'M NOT MISSING A LEG.

Where they hide they may die

But in the meantime, perhaps something can emerge, a linguistically cool new approach, beyond the otherworldly confinement to minimum conditions and cheap standardisation in the lazy bed of the next mass sweet.

The mask of the misguided potentate, the sentient field of flaming carnal inspection, there is so much more in these spring waters of inbreeding, here in the high house you want to bale, you want to piss megalomaniacally. The old notebook in Barbara's cellar, thawed in a worry for your beloved, there is the final form of the declaration of war.

HERE WE SNOW HO-FREE. HOFFREI.

Language fibs diligently, word menagerie, I can assure you, dear operetta of neurons, in no case has this one failed favourably. Unbridled I push myself forward, but so nicely that no one seems angry.

The bailiff advises me to work my magic. The fag in front of the Fantsiecamping bus cackles. A thousand bookworms later, I'm lying on the carpet of my ladies' choice with the local version of Close Forever.

I am willing, I am free.

The blogging interpreter, the approach to recovery. Glorious, final. Published only to the demons whose gifts beguile your being.

The impromptu loyalty of today's follower is a shit morsel to me, go to the hell of your consumer addiction and all the useless socialising with you.

I'M GOING TO GO THROUGH WITH IT, I'M GOING TO TREAT MYSELF TO THE MIRROR AS WHITE HAIR TOO, AND THE SAND SNAKES WILL RIGHTLY FIGHT BY MY SIDE AS WE ASCEND THE THRONE OF WHAT WE TAKE OUT OF THE COLLECTIVE WE ALL SHARE A DNA WITH