Freitag, 26. Oktober 2007
"It's cold, nigga"
50 Cent in Birkenau:
If somehow this was not this, if this was the two of us sitting at a table in Kwadrat drinking biers, if this was an evening far enough away from here that I could have washed my face and changed my sweater, then I could say to him, “I know your music. I do not understand all of the words, but sometimes, when I have been in Warsaw, we hear your songs in a discotheque. I like it very much.” But instead I watch in silence as his five idiot friends take turns trying to walk on the murderous train tracks without falling off. My voice drifts to nothing as I futilely explain the singular hell that was the latrines, which still exist, and from which you can practically smell the misery of a life reduced to something no one would ever recognize as life. He rubs his chest through his fat, American jacket filled with feathers. He doesn’t look at me, even with his sunglasses on I can tell that he never looks at me.
If somehow this was not this, if this was the two of us sitting at a table in Kwadrat drinking biers, if this was an evening far enough away from here that I could have washed my face and changed my sweater, then I could say to him, “I know your music. I do not understand all of the words, but sometimes, when I have been in Warsaw, we hear your songs in a discotheque. I like it very much.” But instead I watch in silence as his five idiot friends take turns trying to walk on the murderous train tracks without falling off. My voice drifts to nothing as I futilely explain the singular hell that was the latrines, which still exist, and from which you can practically smell the misery of a life reduced to something no one would ever recognize as life. He rubs his chest through his fat, American jacket filled with feathers. He doesn’t look at me, even with his sunglasses on I can tell that he never looks at me.
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