They can't sit around together in the altogether, the child would disturb them. The child is damned to seventh heaven. He has no secrets from his parents, spluttering the milk about behind his remaining milk teeth. It is quite a strong bond, the architecture that secures him to his parents, this child. As a matter of fact the son isn't only a nuisance when he's on the drip of his violin. He is always a nuisance. Superfluities of this kind (i.e. children) can only be created by the kind of rash actions that bring troublemakers into the house, so that they can start to shine bright and stupid as lamps from out of their awkward language. Instead of everyone being able to do it with everyone else in every conceivable hole in the place. Father wants to drag the fabric off his wife at last and run dashingly down her hill, but no, the child pervades the room like a holiday, his horn resounds throughout the entire house where all things conduce to love and particularly the specific construction of Father, who, like the big settee in the living room, is obviously suited for love. How nicely these commercial travelers of sex flower by the wayside, these protected little plants, please do not pull them up, they'll be on their way of their own accord! Hide in the woods, but don't tread on their feet, amid all that green they can be incredibly poisonous!
In the kitchen, Father tosses a couple of tablets into his son's juice, to silence this fellow who's eternally on duty, just for once. After all, his son can't do much with his juice yet, but Father, oho, once there's peace and quiet he'll thrust from his suit into Mother and tramp along the well-trod path. God sends his ramblers far and wide, up hill and down dale, till they lay each other waste for good and can continue the journey wih the children at the family fare. They sing when they make their appearance and don presumptive sheaths, when they leave the organ they leave their own dung heap behind. That is what the regulations governing the lay-bys of our life say, and in the process the countryside remains lying in the valley, unattached. Down the path that descends from the mountains, just for us. Father will come, turning in for some refreshment at Mother's dairy, where he can drink it on draught. Not even a Direktor gets a special made-to-measure job. These nipples have been well covered up by time, but they feature wonderfully in his everyday life. The child had best lie down to sleep on the house at last, when he's pretended to play the violin a little more. That's it now! We're off to bed. Just one more lullaby for Mother, who can no longer properly make out her son before her own face, though. How often photos have been taken of that face! The child laughs and yells and fights a bit, till the very last of the pills has flowed into his blood. Yes, this son babbles as if he were planning to wallow within himself in the limelight of the evening, in the sauce of his wealth. Not bigger boys nor stronger boys dare defiantly pull their things out in his presence. In their houses there are cages, right up beside, where human beings eat too.
Mother tries to avoid intercourse with Father's sex, that devastation by means of which he constructs his works in her, with the support of the holy federation. She wants to dwell, yes, but not be visited.
What wouldn't we do to escape the countless speeches from the branches of the child, get into an escape account where we too could finally lie down and, like money, increase in our sleep? It is as if this bottle had been uncorked for good. Nimbler still than the ramblers themselves are their recollections, their bank statements clearly speak of a mountain of interest and sore interest rates. The boy had better sleep and be smoked now, as far as I'm concerned he can skip his bath today. Ah, at last, didn't I say so, at last he's stopped blabbing and is reclining in the armchair. Just now he was cheekily holding forth about the things he knows, and now he is already covered with air and time as if he had never existed. Everything, for nothing is in vain, flows into a trickle of drink from his lip and down his childish chin, where his smile flowered. The child, now that he is finally quiet, is given an inarticulate hug and kiss by Mother. There'll be peace till tomorrow. The main thing is that their son has been knocked out of the way. That child has well and truly surrounded us. At a time when we're busy, with all our orifices, gumming ourselves together in our current situation, which is love. The child's room is made of rough, heavily laden walls, Father carries his son up and drops him out of his clothes and onto the bed like a soft bolster. Whatever lies, sticks. The child is already sleeping, too tired to spray any more sparks from his little tail today. The grown-ups exploit their affinity and paw at each other's gills, to show that age cannot stale them. They are not inhibited and reap the harvest gladly, they have nothing more to lose. Like insects in the sky, Father will presently go into a dive, right into the freshly-cut grass. In less than five minutes he'll have impaled his wife in his lap, which is a miracle, clumsy as he is physically. Gentlemen, you've sprayed your hoses around quite long enough! Now get the Ajax and use it, on your knees, in the evenings, in the haven of the house. Men: their eyes have been poked out and now they're always wanting to poke someone.
This child is so young, and already gleaming (dreaming). Tenderly Mother lays herself in the child's bed, as an extra, is it going to be a loving night? No, she will soon be extinguished beneath the rigid muscles of her husband, who wants to skim his own cream. The child is already fast asleep. Mother tires herself out with pointless kisses which she spreads across the blanket. She kneads the slack tallow of her son. Why has he stopped flourishing for today? For his spirit to flee so fast is unnatural. After all, she knows the child exactly. What tap did Father turn off? But Father has long since withdrawn to his hobby workshop and is pumping juice into his piston so that he will feel on high form. He poisoned his son's juice with sleep, so that the child might dwell in soothing night, protected by his sports heroes and chemistry. He will wake up again all right, to go slithering over the hills and far away, but right now he has been taken from his mother's side. And Mother has to stay with the child, for there's no knowing what comes next.