because of revisiting Thomas Bernhard
He spent his days roaming the city; his nights—sleepless—under the bridge. That bridge went over the small lake of this park, one that you could walk around in ten of fifteen minutes. There was no purpose for that bridge being there; except for sheltering him. This is why he spent every night he could remember of under it—sleepless, lying in a shattered cello case.
Every now and then, at night, people would walk under the bridge, right past him. He would then raise his head, without ever standing up, and make some kind of a remark: on the unusual weather, on the colours of dusk and dawn, on the egoism of nature, on books he never read, on intentions, on the lack of intentions, on not eating and not sleeping, on truth and lies, on the footpaths of this park he had walked on, on trips he never set out to, on people he fell in love with and then forgot about him, on people he never met and hated him—remarks on just about anything. And every now and then, at night, someone would spare some change, or a word of compassion; ever so rarely a tear would fall furtively out of a girl’s eye. He would, only then, stand up and say: think of life as a constant exercise on breathing; on breathing in seasons, the coming and going of days, on breathing in memories, noises, the pulse from underneath someone else’s skin. And these words of his would always drive the girl away—her tears dry, her hands in her pockets making sure nothing was missing.