To the young. Though you are the inheritors of the earth and all its works, you rush from one fad to the next, in a ceaseless quest for novelty. Thus youth has ever gone, and ever will. Yet in every generation, there are some few of you who will heed the disquieting voice that whispers: in spite of all the mayfly changes of fashion, people are still wearing baseball caps.
To a woman. Your eternal complaint to men is that we do not pay you enough attention, and yet when we linger in the alleyway or stalk you online, you are haughty and proud, and take out an apprehended violence order. Ps. I still have your copy of Die Harzreise. Perhaps we could, I don’t know, meet up for a coffee or something.
The shadow. To whom has this not happened? You pause, as if for a moment your soul had fallen into shadow, and, as your will shudders with hesitation, you ask yourself the fatal question: why am I standing here in the kitchen?