Ech schreiwen mol erem un enger neier Kuerzgeschicht. Well dee Personnage mech faszinéiert, deen ech schon an diversen Texter am Laaf vum leschte Joër op der Uni benotzt hun, an awer emmer nemmen als Nierwepersonnage ugedeit hun. Ech hu mer dofir elo firgeholl et auszebauen. Fir elo mol sou richteg no Auteur ze kléngen: ech well dee Personnage kenne léiren dee mer duerch de Kapp spukt. Mol kucken wat draus gett. Hei ass zumindest emol de – provisoreschen – Ufank.
Red evening light fell over the buildings and streets, a blanket for humanity covering the earth; the golden hour.
Zoé sat at her window, wondering why she was thinking about art theory instead of taking her camera and using the last chance to get some beautiful pictures of this landscape. Not so much for its artistic value, but rather to have a memory of what she used to see when sitting on her windowsill. The rain was a good excuse of course, or so she told herself at least. But she’d always loved the rain, it gave the images a beautifully eerie look at this time of the day.
“You fine?” she heard her mom ask as she entered her room.
“Hm hm,” she replied, perfectly knowing that it would not convince her mother. She was not sure whether she wanted to talk to her, but quickly accepted that the tight answer was her subconsciousness’ way to tell her that she needed to talk to her mom.
“Sure? I know we already talked about it a lot, but I don’t want you to have a bad conscience if you want to talk about it again.”
“I’m fine. Really,” she replied. And even though she used actual words this time, it sounded even less convincing. She felt uncomfortable with her mother referring to tomorrow simply by “it”. That tiny word made the whole situation seem small and unimportant, too, and if anything the next day was hugely important.
“I’m gonna say goodnight to your little sister, than I’ll come back,” her mother told her while slowly closing the door. Zoé looked out of the window again.
The golden hour. What an irony…