Behind my Little Dogs almost blind eyes, closed now most of the day, I see his memories which are ours. I purr with him out of contentment. Goals and opinions not always matching, we always knew (and still do) what each other was in.  

He was never that much affected by the souls, as he heard them but did not listen to their stupid speeches. When he  saw one of them he took a jump, his back fur upright. It is certain, that his soul will immediately go where proper souls go! Nothing will stay like the remnants of all the people in this City.  

Of course I am crying now. 

My Little Dog helped my Realistic Sense a lot. Alone, I will give me away to my Possibility Sense; as this process has already started, I know what is coming my way.​

In all my beauty and sweetness I ramble along streets and boulevards, ascending and descending steps and squeezing through tunnels in residential areas of this giant city left by all bodies;  their  souls omnipresent.

I am already learning to stroll only the beautiful areas (but I change my definition of beauty often). At large beautiful is what I see wandering with lowered eyes, not the big scary constructions that cost so many lives. 

And I am already educating souls to focus on utterances of beauty; or keep quiet. I may possibly  change the behavior of some souls as I am trying to change mine; but souls themselves stay as they are; they may only grow and change in earthly life.
​
Right now I enjoy the happiness of feeling one, whole, lonely and free.

The memory of walking along a street named „Incinerated Lips“ seeing a „SCHRADO“ striding down from a roof. Her lanky limbs, limp and white at the joints, drift and sway as she strides. She strides softly although there is scarcely anything good that´s looming.

Only one street ago I had witnessed the torso of a SCHRADO being dragged away, her head been hacked off, neck bleeding pulsingly.    So the sight of the striding SCHRADO hurts.  

Seeing a SCHRADO striding puts you strolling in the dense forest as all leaves suddenly fall from all the trees, changing their color while falling; light breaking in brutally.  

Some say maliciously a SCHRADO is not worth much, fulfills  purpose if nothing better at hand and if you know how to handle one.  - SCHRADOS tolerate, endure and bear everything,  though no striding appears from a SCHRADO in captivity.

Sadness never helps your knowing that SCHRADOS disappear completely when too many were caught away.  Even if there had been the semblance of abundance before. 

Neither is your sadness any help to the struggle of a SCHRADO, as her sole shield are her eyes; so big, so wet, filled with the white eyeball and the dark pupil; a mirror to the catcher!
​
So some men, never daring to look in her eyes, creep up on SCHRADOS and kill them, never have seen their eyes, barely ever their striding. 
   



​

If you mean children, when you ask me if I miss other humans, I would say: oh yes, I feel lonely, I miss them very much. 

But humans are seldom like children. And I can not understand adult specimens. When they are old, it is even worse. I think my biggest communication problem with them is: I don´t lie. (and I look and I listen)

We had several series of highly developed robots, that all had to go to the dump, because people couldn´t accept them. They were not humanlike, people said, and felt threatened by them. These robots were so wonderful, they just didn´t lie. 

This entry is kind of a declaration: if you don´t like children and robots, my thoughts will probably not please you. 
​
I am a child myself.





​

What made me silent for years and decades are the voices. Once when this  City was filled with people it was a noisy cluster; noisy for the ears. I don´t know what kind of antenna i own, what kind of sensibility, but i had to hear the voices in the people´s heads too. And i was still a child when the dead found out i could hear them. Thenceforth apparently every being from everywhere and every time wished to tell me their anger. 

THIS IS MY MESSAGE TO YOU: Please join me in listening! My hope, unfulfilled until now, is, that any additional listener would help comforting the voices.

I tell you what´s waiting for you: unhappy, dissatisfied plaintive voices. I can have no clear own thought, when the mourners fill me with their shit, their complaints about their lost lifes. I don´t judge and i have no clue how to do it any better; they themselves tell me every detail how they succesfully ruined their lifes. 

Nothing you can tell a voice. A voice never listens. 
​
Not all  voices are crap rubbish. When i fail for a certain time to hear the fine wise voices out of the mourning choir i become a lamenting voice myself. How embarrassing!



​

I feel it clearly now, that the writing down of all that is happening, had happened and all  the incredible things that could happen - or could have happened, but their time has passed - will be in english, a language that spread over the worlds because of its primitiveness and abilities to produce misunderstanding. In my hands - used to the delicate language of german poetry - english will generate even more clumsiness; maybe, my words at last will tell nothing at all; maybe, if there ever should be a reader or a listener, she will be staring at my mistakes - and hopefully laughing.

If there should be any german speaking beings, they would dwell in clusters of fear and suspicions, doing ersatz-communication only when forced, otherwise speaking their empty words to the empty space beside each other.  

I decided: if there is a being listening and hungry , she will be listening in english, her listening maybe the same poor quality as my broadcasts.

It is very hard for me, but so i decided.

If You stumble upon my words and mistakes, please send me a message. 

There is no time to waste! No,  i see no signs of an end coming near. But a situation without a change over a long long time, a standing still, isn´t that an end?




​