They topple out of the silk, whoops! – another moving picture! Nature, it seems, has slapped down two ill-judged meatballs from its catering supply can. Laughter. After the TV show, my dear fellow Austrians, you can go off and mix with each other. Often a finer fate lies beneath soft footfall; but wherever did I stick the wallpaper? Silly me, there it is – on me! What a fool. Gerti has to prise her mouth open and suck this thing in. Incidentally, tobogganing is good fun too, but – please – never ever where people are skiing: the last upright citizens in this world, they cannot stand it if someone squatting on one dumb lump of wood disturbs them. It affronts them. Their middle class sledges, fully paid off, are in the parking lots, and they open their doors to their owners as they return from the fire a little too late, having turned a little brown. This is the very place you'll find them. See the map attached! You just have to believe absolutely in something really smashing, and then smash someone else's teeth in. And meanwhile in Gerti a fine fire is still crackling, a whole metre of pork sausage like a fire hose in her mouth. Well now, gentlemen, heroes alclass="underline" let me take a look down my sights, and see if you haven't all got a cock of your own, cocked and ready to fire!
No, there are no spare parts for the moment. The storm caused by our god, sex, sends us all to our ruin by the shortest route. Leave the man his senses, so that he can make sense of himself in peace and quiet. We women have to fix ourselves as best we're able, and then hark to the distant, echoing silence from your lifeless gadgets, oh gentlemen, still trembling slightly at the thought that the guarantee might have expired. Of us the men think last of all! A stranger Michael came, a stranger he must away, and so must his thing. Contemptuously he dribbles a droplet or so off his semi-stiffy into Gerti's face, which cannot make it to safe cover in time. The lads and lasses, faces glowing with smiling and living, withdraw to warmer places too, to stretch their stamina a little before they enter the higher working echelons. Nothing to be done about it. So get out of the bar and into life and don't worry! Gerti's freebie picnic is packed away again. Michael, who couldn't even warm to a foreplay prologue, laughs heartily. Now all of them, a refreshing stream, propose to see wholl be first sliding down the Alps. And so they start a war in this bright light, just so that they, the sons of the valley, can go cracking their very own whiplashes good and proper. Impatiently they take their place in line with those who will soon have departed. And even shove to the front. Not that those who were born poor will complain! They well know the Father's commandments. Let there be no misunderstanding: outside the chairlift station, where the ground is strewn with paper cups. These dimwits who have driven to strange territory and meet there, now they're pushed aside and must take a stop at their own inn. In themselves. Patiently queue, with all their nice long-play cassettes that they've been collecting a whole life long. Their princes are singing in chorus now, and much louder! Anyway, Youth goes by all by itself, and not at all badly either.
I've grasped… it. And you… feel warm.
These are not the children of sorrow. They help the woman to her feet, brush her down, the snow crunches a laugh underfoot. She has not had to suffer too too much for the sake of these sons. Someone thrusts her wet knickers, a postcard souvenir, into her hand. Her coat is even buttoned up for her. Her body's nutrient production begins to grease her hair properly. And she has already signed the cheque, it's just that the new clothes will have to be altered at the boutique. She's been wanting to re-cover her body, and yet with every day that comes she is the more aware of the heavy bags her skin has to carry. That wasn't the way it was meant, that stuff about the sons and daughters, the gold eggs in the nests of high schools. We too could be knocked right off our feeble trunk at any moment! Like leafage we would fall into the beautiful gardens of the owners, mildewed, and no matter how often the Frau Direktor does her calculations she can't come up with a decent number of incinerators. Only the children, led by the angels, sing in chorus when they enter into this house on a magic carpet and laugh at their parents. We won't hear it later. Michael feels like talking now, now that it's too late. He grabs roughly inside the front of her coat and dress, and, laughing, tugs and twists her nipples. His other hand he jams between the cheeks of her behind. And then he puts a civil tongue in her mouth. He has already retracted his shlong of his own accord, to give it an overhaul. He's always glad of an opportunity to pick up where he left off. The fellow's always out somewhere wanting to be picked up! And the whole thing has been nothing but time passing. The car doors slam, they talk of pleasures and friends that have been paid for and to which one entrusts oneself, like the fitness trainers they possess or in fact are. AH in vain! The angels will never be just like human beings. Only they can experience pleasure and go within themselves. Helplessly the people retch with drink. They bring it up when it ought to be having a lie down. They puke in the snow, leaning on their cars. The women fuss, the children moan. Fine. The car drives off, but the content of these people remains behind, asleep in nature, where the true and good dwelleth and goods are lied to by their own labels. In a rage they all cry out to make a stop, for ever, and hold an attractive human being in their arms, for ever. But the rulers feed the animals only once a month, and then we exert ourselves too much. Time will bring everything to light.
Gerti is put in her car. Quiet, now! How shall I put it? She has been at the mercy of hands and tongues. She almost made off, angrily shifting her sticks and belts and apron strings. A mere safety belt will suffice to hold her back.
Others in bondage have advised her to use it. Just as the artist finds his way to art, so too the village children find their way to her, to endure their rhythmical trials at the hands of this woman. The child bows over its violin, the man over the child to punish it. The works choir sings on Sunday to express itself. Many of them sing, and yet they sing as one. This choir really exists, so that the members all tug as one man at their vocal chords while the factory crouches in wait high above them. Every now and then it's thirsty and swallows up the herd, and then the pylons far and wide can hear the humming of poor people getting in line. Like children. Many came but few were chosen to sing a solo. The Direktor has his work for a hobby, so he's okay. The youngsters pour into their vehicles, now they are off to their holiday homes, where they can stuff yet more into and out of themselves. The rooms are booked out. Blessed highway, crossing the flatland, preserving the peace and quiet for all but those who live there, whose ears bleed with the racket – till they themselves can get away for a holiday.