The Suffering of Gabriel the Sculptor
Since he has been in hospital, Gabriel with the skill of a conjurer steals knives and scalpels. With them, he slits the veins in his forearm to squeeze out the stone dust that has formed into clots, which shackle his joints at the slightest twitch of the hand. The voices of death and the wails of dying patients that echo eerily in the hospital colors, especially at night, do not reach him.
Since he has been in hospital, Gabriel with the skill of a conjurer steals knives and scalpels.With them, he slits the veins in his forearm to squeeze out the stone dust that has formed into clots, which shackle his joints at the slightest twitch of the hand. The voices of death and the wails of dying patients that echo eerily in the hospital colors, especially at night, do not reach him.
Nobody suspects that Gabriel is emulating the solitude of the rock. He neither wants nor permits anyone's to inhabit his wasteland. He strains to keep for himself at all costs that nothing of his, which is all that has left. Before he jumbled fairground of senseless passage of time his sand-filled honeycomb beats the hour of the bee's infallible precision and of the mute moments of transience which are thrown into the crevices of nothingness where his long-delivered mail is pilling up; where the thirst for the irreversibly vanished days, months and years is stowed away; where the countless sleepless nights and the deadened echoes of the hammer's blow are straining to revive and where the muffled chipping of the chisel in the heart of the stone are striving to be heard anew. His calloused hands with more sand in them than in blood flesh and bones want for the last time to grasp the force emanating from the skull and turning into the essence of light...
