Well, I´m sitting here. In front of me a table which is more messy than tidy.

Everything you could imagine possibly fitting on a table is lying on it:

Chocolate; my alarm clock - never set, so my body can decide for itself when it wants to wake up; a toothbrush mug full of pencils, ball points, markers, fineliners and pens; a photography from old yesteryears; a yellowed drawing of a person I once could call my friend; a glass of water which is standing there for so long I can´t remember when I brought it thither; a withered petal whose source is lying in one of my many dustbins; a rusty little lamp that, in spite of its respectable age, is still working surprisingly well;  lint from pullovers and scarves which fell prey to my twitchy fingers; an apple, just barely not rotten; and then, right in front of me, a single, spotless, blank peace of paper which is just waiting to have something written on it.

But there´s exactly the problem. 

Because nowhere in my immediate surrounding are people to be found.

Furniture, carpets, curtains, windows, doors - yeah.

Though not the kind of person who - in an irregular appearing frenzy of overcoming and creativity - has the ability to write on this single, spotless, blank peace of paper with the words it longs for. 

There´s just me, sitting in front of a table which is more messy than tidy, and thinking feverishly, however without success, with which words I could provide this single, spotless, blank peace of paper. I ponder, dig for memories, poke in old ideas that stayed in my mind, re-sort my thoughts dozens of times, create chaos, then order and eventually chaos again in my head, go over the burnt-in photographies, paintings, drawings, until I´m sick of every familiar memory, idea, thought or picture like I never was before.

And nevertheless there´s not even a teeniest word written on this single, spotless, blank peace of paper.

In my skull it seems, one quake is relieving the next, one natural catastrophe after another is announcing. And yet, at the same time my head seems to be filled with such an enormous, a vacuum resembling, emptiness.

Not a word I could worm out of him. 

No description, definition, narration, story, explanation, idea, invention or line.

No tale, poem, song, text, article, picture, verse or sentence.

And so, the single, spotless, blank peace of paper tragically stays without a title.