It is a rainy rainy afternoon and I am looking out of the window - dreaming to be a little white bat, hanging - head below heels - under the banana's leaf together with my little furry brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts. How cosy it would be, living in the midst of the smell of bananas and mice, feeling here and there the little bites of still smaller bloodsuckers with six legs. Or what about being a busy bumblebee, flying through rain and hail from one flower to another, resting only for the wink of an eye on a petal here and there. And I am looking down again on the white sheet in front of me, which is staring back, murmuring under its breath something about: you should rather... or is it: but you must not...?
I am chewing the blunt end of my pencil, looking up to the window, tracing the raindrops and their draining away, sadly painting paths down the glass. The sky is crying - or is it someone in heaven, who sheds these tears?
And one of mine drops on the white paper in front of me.
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