I've written a lot. I've crossed out even more. Discarded and forgotten. But I'm not at point zero. I'm at point minus one, from which other lines diverge. I've been here before. It's a dangerous place. Marshy. Nervous movements embed deeper and deeper into the mire. One must escape from here, but hastily grasping at random strings can also be treacherous.

My mind urges me to ponder what a concert used to be and what it is today. How does a guitar relate to strings? What distinguishes and what connects the friction of a bow from the plucking of a string with a finger? That the hair of the bow is, after all, the same tissue as the nail on the guitarist's finger. But it's nonsense, apparent reflection and pseudo effort; one cannot write anything like this. This way, time can be wasted in relatively good spirits. Unfortunately, good spirits are no guide here.

I must freeze into stillness and wait. Wait out the panic, wait out the deadly boredom, wait out the rage. Think absolutely nothing, making sure it doesn't become a self-propelling program of action itself. Eventually, some current will carry me away from here. Even in the marsh, there are currents.