TV, so that everyone can buy one or one like it? How should we reach it, if this wet snow avalanche was not announced in advance by the weather man? And God, too, you only show made of gold, silver, or marble, yet he worked so hard and took on so much, precisely to leave matter, the material, behind him and to be able at last to return to himself again, in spiritual form, as spirit, who's in good shape (at any rate he's got no competition in human beings, against whom he could measure himself, he made them, after all!), in order to fly around everywhere, into people, out of people again, just as he pleased. So please, in or out, as far as I'm concerned: I'm not an airport, I'm not even a taxi stand. One step further, no not as far as that either, don't you see, that's where the precipice down to the Hollental begins, the hunting rights have been leased by an industrialist from Germany who has retired from business and who now only wishes to devote himself to his living young wife and his dead animals of every age. The ground belongs to the Federal Forests (actually: the Habsburg Family Fund, but you can forget it, unless Zvonomir Habsburg, no sooner than he can speak three words, demands it back from you in person, then Flobert pistol in hand you will step outside your little house, which you had to save so hard for, and blow him away, the splendid pretender to the throne, yet a trace of his breath will then be able to blow you away, and the cameras will want to be there, too, but arrive too late, yes, that is ALL, that we'll never get: consideration), the shoes in which you're standing you bought at Dusika Sport, you could have got them cheaper at Shopping City Slid, the car drivers belong to the country policeman, who gets money for them as well, and so in this way you'll manage to get nature to kill itself and even to regard that as its only goal. It will cast off its covering of visibility and sensuality, push through like the last caterpillar through the last cocoon or whoever does it, until the construction of the butterfly has been completed. The imago then appears in a glow, beating its wings, the full-blown image of the finished creature, over the lake, but for the young dead woman it's no incentive, she cannot of her own accord slip out of her pupa, the plastic sheet and float around. She will be floating matter in the water if she's not found in time, which has hereby occurred. That is how I decided it. In death this young girl cast off her pupa wrapping, but unlike the Son of Man she did not become God, a pity really. Her death should be seen in a rather more negative light, let's see if me negative has a point, too, yes, I see it, it could be the peak of what a human being can reach as nature, and that is the peak of an iceberg. From this frozen mountain peak he can see God much better, because he will have come considerably closer to him. Believing that won't make you happy either. Her nature, the nature of the young dead woman, will burn itself up, as if it were a ship, she will go out of herself, behind herself, floating if necessary and reappear as spirit, young, pretty, smart, hard working. And here we have it, the finished young moth, pretty as a picture, nice to see you!, we usually only get oldies here, you dear newborn spirit, whose shoes and handbag are missing, choose something in the wardrobe department, we have millions of ownerless bags and shoes in stock, which we have taken away from people. At first I thought, Gabi still has her shoes, but they're gone too, sorry, my mistake. Who knew that shoe soles bear clues, which can be traced right back to the murderer? I should have known. Someone else knew. Who pulled off her shoes, and where are they now? I would incidentally urgently advise you not to take this step into the unknown, which Gabi had to take, oh no, too late, now you know it already, the unknown, are lying amidst fallen rocks down below and can try out everything on yourself. But all in the proper order. You must on no account become spirit first and then die, otherwise people will see you as you transform yourself and then wander around endlessly and without floodlights, illuminated only by the little red lamp in front of the tabernacle, which God moved out of long ago because he found a bigger apartment, flutter over the snow-covered slopes, which won't make you any better or more beautiful either, in the night, when one can't see very clearly anyway, but of course one does see the dead. They have a bright radiance about them, though not a happy one. The dead. Actors and audience in one. They so rarely become spirits, because, as already mentioned, they nowhere find spirit, which they could slip into like ichneumon wasps. Then they would eat up the spirit in order to survive. Death could certainly apologize to us, if it comes too soon, one doesn't do that, the housewife is still busy putting on make-up, doing her hair, and stirring the mayonnaise, nothing will come of it, I can see that at a glance. I've already said it several times, I think: Only with death and the Olympic Games is taking part all that is required, but I'll now add that, thanks to the admission ticket to our own death (for which we waited in a long line at the abortionist's, who in the end sent us away again, because we were already too far advanced and unfortunately had to be born), we have also become part of the self-realization of God, yes, that's his hobby and his job and once again of course it's entirely at our expense. Even God cannot be expected to pay the prices at the Manhattan Fitness Club. Presumably you, who are individually so dependent on others that you have to read books to have at least a clue about the spirit, are anyway no more than fertilizer for the salvation process, which consists in having to dissolve oneself, take one's leave, as you please, done already, how can one so completely distort the necessity of dying? It is my only very personal consolation, please forgive me. This young, dead woman, I have to laugh at her stupidity, to entrust herself to a beast of prey, to put a little hand on its fly, why would an animal, which nearly always goes about unclothed, ever have needed something like that, its heart hardly beats any faster when it brings down its quarry, and when the animal has to work it can't pee at the same time that's taken care of, I think, by the north adrenalin or the south adrenalin, which it then produces. The animal. It would carry out these actions again at any time, to get something moving, says the animal. Someone who works for a Muslim charity organization or the like and also earns money through it is also living dangerously, says another animal, a Fuchs- fox-from Gralla, after his own hands exploded and he went the way of all flesh, following his hands, which pointed the way. The application of force is always unpredictable. That's the way it is. How fortunate, that the fox spoke to us a little beforehand, about his very own truth, which strangely enough doesn't appear more peculiar to me than this whole country in which I find myself at present. It's better if the country is concerned with itself for a bit, in order not to alarm others.