I look into the eyes of a 19-year-old girl and see in them perversity, cynicism and open pragmatism; I can sense the weight of fatigue in her breasts. I dawns on me that the graffitio which I read on a wall Cinderella married for money is true. I feel the urge to become part of it all, lured by the glamour of the shining car and miniskirts. Inviting parted lips from the cover of the Vogue magazine whisper: "I love you." This seems to be the earthly Paradise where we are all free and beautiful. We have been promised that we we can be free and we can become beautiful and rich. It is all very simple: we must simply follow strictly all diets and prescriptions. Patience and just a little more effort. I look at myself in the mirror. My nose has become flattened, my nostrils look wider, my thick lips look ever more swollen, my skin is already brown, my hair - black and curly The taste of paradise proven to be banana taste. "We is not you/vous/Sie" - you can read it in their eyes. The moist parted lips whisper again: "I love you." I hear "Fuck you." I am not yet Prince.
Women-princesses dressed in semi-transparent garments walk elegantly in the procession of the fashion show. Their firm breasts move rhythmically. CASTA DIVA. The divine caste. Buy dignity. Buy Pierre Cardin, Versace and BMW and you will become one of us, I promise. Keep repeating to yourself: :"In God we trust" ; accept green as the unique, supranational, universally valid and convertible colour, and we shall persuade God to vote for you, I promise. Somewhere other people are voting, too. The choice is "Fuer Auslaender verboten." There must be some misunderstanding. Or Albert Camus is no longer popular.
I watch a game. Just watching, not taking part. I resist. I remain on outsider. The dissident movement was a part of the game. A game of cards. Cards which swish and fly over my head, because I proved to be so small that my feet are tangled in the fibers of the green baize of the table. The cards are marked, sometimes the images of whole countries can be seen on them. The stakes are high. Participation is paid for, time goes on. I want to upset the table. The baize has turned blood-red and I splash aimlessly through it. Mickey Mouse is dead. "Go west" is no longer valid. Where does the anarchy of the consciousness start from? I seek warmth and refuge between two legs. I utter threats from here. From now on my watch will keep me on track.