Paragraphe of TRE URKUNDER/Xigol Bångh
 

The first chapter would be about a paper merchant who became rich. 
Neither the second chapter may take price. I see an Egyptian laptop that writes for itself. All about war and distress. Eleven pages flit by, all well written with good
touch and good military expertise. Could he have been hiding in the attic?The writing shall not go through the wall. It is a code in pure Greek and
I do not address it until tomorrow.
Always, always and always. Will anyone be able to know what I now say.

With horse-drawn tram it was possible to get here out along the beach.
Through the window I look into the neighboring house. At the landing there is a large
dark cabinet with dimensions as a house.
The Egyptian text continues to fool me with its ever  more precise
propositions. - What is it meant that I shall do with it? Why does it  write itself
to me?
November rustle in the trees, wet leaves as small aircraft singles in as a sign of
kids party  full of wonder and monstrous furniture  in protective covers. A vole
sniffing out of stone plates. The curly young man's head in cement on top of the
high garden Wall has split where he scouts turned away from from the sea as a guardian against I
do not know what. Everyone has gone. Lilac arbor is tight enough to tear the clothes of any
intruder. I'll sleep here on the divan covered with a plush carpet, a
temporary whereabouts, but I have established myself as in a bomb shelter and am
provided with drinks and food, patience and curiosity. I can not hear him  but is
he there? He who speaks through the machine? Annihilates he me into the bodiless
silent witness incubated in the time we endure yet has everything arranged? Is the
testimony  his? Am I  the witness ? What is that? Which one of us survives when
the day is done and which one of us must scissor the other's written lots of the wall
and head off? We are both there, in Gethsemane, or are one of us watching over the
other? I think we both died in unbelief, and now live in the shelter of the Other, he
coming whether we like it or not, choosing any one of us as a harbinger. God in the heavens, I can not see him! He has not sent me, I can not give him
Yes. It's like a puzzle, where we both are repeated endlessly and do not want to understand
game's  mosaic. We just are, like children in a sandpit, mixed up next to nothingness.
I do not take him with in the spirit. It is Light that I am at this moment. And he
darkness. Or? He green and white, as a banner in the wind. This is my fest.
Thus a deficiency in the response, whose color does not retain its strong color of eternal
resonance.
I cleanse  the course of events, can not win without the pen and him
expended.
I do not know if I should or not. I want to be there until, devastated,expanded, no longer senses.
I am God.

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