In the year 1982 we even made love to one another, too late to stop our wilderness, on a termite‘s hill an der blauen Donau – I slightly preferred the comfort of a multi-coloured summer bed in an old Wohngemeinschaft in Regensburg with patchouli hanging on the walls, at the night before we saw the band who did Monarchie und Alltag … Geschichte wird gemacht … your were my queen of senses and I loved you forever in that year soundtracked by Talking Heads and Kevin Rowland and Abracadabra and discreet music and noises of two sweating bodies up on my hillside. Remember, too, that bathtub in good old München on a rainy evening. In that summer nothing was noir, come on, Eileen. Our carnival of souls, and now I may write my small time travel novel, around 235 pages. „Der schwarze Hund von Bergeinöden“. Easy-peasy, an experimental little novel with ghosts, lovers, dogs and other strangers. Think of all those poems hanging in psychedelic air just waiting to drop from our marmelade tree. The end of many things to come comes with a campfire, a storyteller, and Too Rye Ay (As It Should Have Sounded).