Take me from that plane, from the heavy gold frame of a large picture. See—I'm standing up to my knees in a compost pile. Second from the left, in a suit, flowers in hand. Lips squeezed shut, a smile running along the chin. I look furtively glace—you have come with someone else and will stay later at the ball.

Nice to meet you, I'm a pumpkin. But tonight your hands will turn me into a stagecoach. It will take you to the open, dirty countryside—you'll open the door and watch how the rain aspires to draw thin strokes down your face.

Translated by M.O.Beitiks