“Where am I?”, is the first thing, I ask myself in the morning. I can spot the sea from looking out of the window. The sea does not care. Does one know the sea, while living on an island? The sea knows better. The grocer’s wife knows better, too. You are different from us, she says to me. She speaks without any sentiment. She asserts that as a fact. The housemaid of the priest cleans the church windows, it will soon start to rain, but as a matter of fact, the windows have to be cleaned today, even if the rain does not care. The rain will come, says the housemaid to me, she states it as a matter of fact. She cleans out the bucket on the street, the rain starts and the street shimmers for a minute or two. The rain shatters against the church windows, but the housemaid looks content, she cleaned the windows, she knows where she is. Is it true, according to Hölderlin that “the divine- like all grandeur- is not confined to big things but contained in small things?” I don’t like Hölderlin very much, or did not liked myself very much, when I adored Hölderlin. Mind yourself, says a mother to her child. But the child does not mind. The child falls down on the ground and cries, the road is slippery after the rain. I saw this coming, says the grocer’s wife with a slightly triumphant smile. The road does not care. Does one know where a road leads to or where it ends? The old record player, makes a sizzling noise, Mahler’s “Song of a Wayfarer” is echoed in his symphonic works many times. It must have appeared to him like a gentle reminder from a still-intact world but could an island be like this? This island probably will never be found. In the third song, there comes the outburst, “I’ve a glowing knife” but Mackie Messer knew better and the grocer’s wife knows always best. Once a year the knife grinder comes, the shearer has already been here, the rain will stop maybe tomorrow, in the evening I forget where I am, the wayfarer will sing in his despair till the old record player stops with a crackling noise.