While packing for Mojave and placing a pair of pants in the suitcase, a gray figure rises up out of it.
Somehow, it gets less and less. I mean, before I even put something into the suitcase, it doesn’t—as one would expect—become more, but, to my surprise, less. For example, when I carefully place my pants into the suitcase and these pants then simply disappear inside it. As if nothing had happened. Pants! I cry into the suitcase. Pants! Pants!I would love to just pack my suitcase and go on a trip, say, to Mojave—and unpack my suitcase again there and bury my pants in the sand. Obviously. When you haven’t packed a suitcase in a long time, so long that packing one feels foreign, and when the whole suitcase is covered in dust, and when you nevertheless decide to pack it—and then everything disappears. You look into the suitcase, and it’s dark. And when, out of that dark suitcase, twisted arms and legs begin to climb upward, and suddenly someone with a pointy nose is standing there. I mean, a gray figure climbs out of the suitcase and starts speaking in a stern voice. While he raises his voice, I remain drawn to his sharp-edged nose and can barely hear what he’s saying. He points his finger at me, and all I can think is what a stupid game this is, and I point my finger back at him. While I’m thinking about his nose and my missing pants, he seems to grow angrier. I mean, I put something in, and it simply becomes less. The man turns red with rage, and I shout, I didn’t do anything! His finger, still pointed at me, swings toward the suitcase now, and I understand at once. I shout, I understand! All twisted, I climb into the suitcase. My pants are there, and nothing else.