He goes to the hairdresser once a month, the country policeman, to get a haircut, today is not that day. A conviction abruptly pervades him, unexpectedly, he then wanders through the territories of idleness, nothing, he wanders through the territories of his job, there he has often struck lucky. While driving, women make mistakes out of carelessness, absent-mindedness, or incompetence, and already the country policeman has them by the skirt and doesn't let go again, if they're to his taste and he has got hold of their address. How quickly they consent and more as soon as he has unpacked them. It was the handy packaging with the thread, pull here, which opens even the most buttoned-up. He stirs up a fire in them. The bodies can be thrown away, the heads one would keep, so that one can make sure that they don't talk incessantly, the women. They're real gold mines. They immediately offer him traveling expenses, gifts, then themselves, then the rest as well. In return they want to build on him. The same thing he has in mind with them. Except that he also wants to get hold of what they've already built. What appears difficult to us, to destroy someone and obtain a cement collar, in order to reliably sink the booty to the bottom, this man takes all that for granted, if you please. That's what he's there for, and he wants to put himself in every other place as well, which at the moment, unfortunately, is still occupied by another body: one or more rooms in one or more houses. Squeezing into the bodies of strangers, that's good too, then only oneself is left over, a bird, which hoarsely, hoarsely crying, scrambles around on a corpse and doesn't know where the eyes are now, which it wanted to pick at first, so that the dead, with whatever senses, could no longer distinguish him. He wants to remain unobserved, the man. It didn't, unfortunately, work with his dead mother, he must still succeed. But then he would like to get into everywhere else as well, squeeze in, in order not to let go of himself, to be by himself and to stay that way, when he inflicts his wounds, of which others with small twitching body parts always die, after they have watched anxiously for a month, for years, what is to become of this child. If someone looks at him like that, the country policeman would rather eat himself up, so that nothing, not even himself, is left to be seen, only a house, another house, and another house, house-proud. Then at least he would be: gone. What kind of man can he be? He is like an angel with inner eyes, no, not an angel looking backwards in case someone is standing behind him with a stone. His muscles and sinews don't know why they are inserted into a thin but firm nylon skin, which can contain simply every body shape no matter where it leads. But not for long. In a moment it will clutch a tuft of hair again and pull everything attached to it to the ground. Exactly the same thing will happen to this suit, there was a very similar one in the advertisements for holidays in Austria, encoded however, otherwise no one would have put up with it, the suit-here we are shown the population in the dress of the country, and all the things it gets up to: Sport, please take over! But the whole population has been locked up in its clothing so that it can't get out and do any harm, as so often, our population, oh dear, too late, now it's out, now it's out-an endless mountain panorama in the background, which is supposed to represent the boundlessness of this in fact rather small plump land. We've meanwhile given up this goal again. People don't want to visit us anymore. But yesterday on TV they showed us the new ski suits for the world championships, and we were all annoyed at the way they looked; I saw nothing but shininess and lightning flashes. My eyes were dazzled. In history: boundless crimes. In the present: boundless pleasure on the high crags, to which the paths lead, so that we can look down on the others, paths on which we sportswomen and sportsmen can roll or slide around. We are the party, which is the only one to let us join. We are the party, which we have already joined, because: We are who we are. And not anyone else.
The rumble of thunderstorms is approaching now. We are all in the dark about ourselves, but to make up for that our conscience is clear again at last, it wouldn't have had a chance against this weather anyway, which we didn't ask for, which was given to us as a present, and which now only harms us as far as the strangers are concerned, because today it's coming for the third day in a row, thunderstorms, rockfalls, hail, avalanches. Who will keep the children in the Alpenrose Pension occupied until it's fine again? How wonderful, altogether elevating, after the mountains have risen up against us, when we are at last allowed to enter the mountain refuge, and the landlady hands us the strong hunter's punch, the parson's nose, the smoked ham rolls, while outside the world public walks past and ignores us instead of dropping in. It's on its way quite without trousers, the world and its organs, without sweatshirt and even without walking shoes, we bought them all, we chose them from the catalog. That's the way we like to see the world, naked, bare, and dumb, so that we can again and again lead it up the garden path. We're somebody again, but which somebody? We are a European, fallen from heaven like the first sunbeams, which are now coming out at last, we have done so much and more to make it happen, that the foreigners will be happy and be our friends! But it was worthwhile. The civilized nations have taken to us again! Well, thank you very much!