At the Station
A laugh into the silence, a step into the stillness, and a single breath seems to make the station tremble.
So sit on the roof and watch remotely The wind that makes the spires dance there, slowly
That is the beauty of the concert. Music threading its way in and out of the thoughts of a hundred vague spirits in the audience.
We are a backwards people
The sun revolves around the Earth which revolves around our moon and the twinkling little stars.
Walser died in the same style in which he wrote: he went on a lonely walk and never came back.