Schnee von gestern, Schnee von morgen

In walking, he gathers what he encounters, day by day, step by step: two ravens at his feet, a bitten apple by the roadside, the swarm of flies hovering in place. In between, thoughts of Odysseus wandering through world events and history, memories of the snake at the edge of the children's forest, the sound of raindrops on the leaves, the image of shadows cast by clouds. Then the laughter of children on the horizon, their carefree play drowning out the noise by the roadside. There he finds the peace that does not exist, in the swing of the child's mouth, there he reigns. Until the one who speaks incessantly sets off, and another comments: Allegedly, he was last seen some time ago, curled up in the back of the very last night bus as the final passenger.

"Snow from yesterday, snow from tomorrow" is a piece for the stage, a drama without speaker changes, a song without a refrain. As if Peter Handke's character, speaking and singing, attempts to listen to the silence, thus simultaneously tuning it out, trying to do justice to the world and worldly experience. The speaker interrupts himself, starts anew, and not only collects what he encounters while walking, but also follows the afterimages with closed eyes.