In front of me I saw thousands and thousands of people grinding against each other, like blades of grass on a vast field, who fight for the gift of sunlight. Loud calls and singing filtered through the crowd, like a breeze of air, which softly blows through the grassland. Melodies danced through the meadow of souls. Some cried tears of joy, others danced themselves into tantric trance and yet others held their hands into the sky in order to – Atlas like – carry the sky. So close were the stars. A whisper of amazement went through this new united, gigantic human corpse, which had been mutated, by means of the collective superstition of the individuals, into a human Leviathan of supernaturalism. Out of the human meadow grew tree-high floodlights which blinded me. It was only a question of the viewing angle: for some I looked illuminated; I myself felt blinded. Like a messiahs in the celestial spotlight, I tried to tame the subservient monster. The lifting of my right hand as a sign of praise transmogrified the crowd into a cheering aggregation of human destinies, who euphorically shared the bliss of the moment. The beast licked my hand. In their eyes was my visage, in their ears my voice, on their tongue my name, in their hearts was my heart, on their hands they carried my towards the sky. So close were the stars. They sang my name like a choir of angles and I was able to see how they melted away in their devoted love for me, me, their illuminated sun, the antipole of their shadowy, saturnine existence. Thus, they circumambulated me, the centre of their universe, like the Muslims do it with the Kaaba, the Buddhist with the sacred Mount Kailash, the Hindus with their gods during the Pradakshina. I could feel how they dedicatedly lay their entire being in front of my feet. And they sang my name, sang my name. I was their god. Then I raised my messianic voice and spoke:
Maybe I never wrote for myself,
Instead solely for a phantasm of infinity,
Which merely took my angst of death.
And if this eternity does not exist,
Then every letter was in vain.
But if the moment is the eternity,
Then I am writing myself to immortality,
Up to this point.