At night things become ever so smaller, our shoes and teeth, too, and
everywhere in buildings screws turn a quarter of a revolution, but even if you press your
ear against the wall, the sound is rarely heard. Always there is someone who plays the
gelatin piano, someone who packs his pipe with snow, and on a radio channel from somewhere
in the world, where the sun is already on its way up through the mist in the horizon: a
gospel choir of hoarse, nearly inaudible women.