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name and the most horrible sentences I have ever
concocted. And with loathing I see myself place a lit match
to the piece of paper and the shameful contents and watch
them flare up, and even laugh out loud when everything
has turned into ashes.
Tish, vish, vush, vish vanish… tish, vish, vush, vish vanish…
The moans, the booming in the voice; with amazement I
hear the sound and the words come, I am lost, entranced by
my deeds, I do it automatically, my reason gawping from
the sidelines.
---
And I go on. I don’t want to stop. The hate in me brings the
glass out from its place of concealment behind the bedside
lamp, gets me to spit three times into the ashes; soon it will
be morning.
Why all these qualms, these questions of right and wrong,
when I know that every day from now on, nine days in a
row, I will continue my ritual with incantations and sorcery,
and finally pour the filth where it belongs – down our
communal toilet?
No, spare me lifted fingers and sensible talk. The sorcery
has already produced results: after only one day I have a
feeling of control, the sense that my curse can affect
developments in the house. Furthermore, the ritual has a