...after a while alone in the hammock, a young woman, just over 20 years, with red dyed hair tied into a braid comes directly to me. She says she has just missed her bus and now feels like lying down with me. As she lies next to me she tells me that she is rarely in the hammock. Her apartment has no balcony. She misses the opportunity to go outside. It is cold, but her body warms mine because we lie so close together. We hang under the roof of the station. Protected from the rain. She waits for good weather for her parachute jump. It has been postponed. I admire her courage. She wants to do something outstanding in her life again. Then she remembers the bus. She wants to see if it is coming soon and says goodbye.

...a middle-aged man with a gray cap and a black leather jacket lies down next to me. He looks at the white slats above us and notices that some are missing. He imagines how many young pigeons have been born there. He has just come from a rehearsal in which he clownishly tries to unfold a deck chair. He is rehearsing his own inability. As he narrates, I feel the vibration of his voice in his chest. At the same time he pushes the hammock very lightly with his foot so that we sway gently back and forth. We become calm. The pleasant swaying reminds him of a bondage workshop where he was tied to a tree. A second man in a purple sweater joins us in the hammock. It also holds the three of us. I am warmed from two sides....

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