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The wind brings unlocal music. That is, their music, human music, just not typical of this place: jagged, rough, sharp-cutting with the edges of the words.

He doesn’t understand the meaning, but the rhythm is hammered into every bone in him.

…Und der Mob fängt an zu toben

Sie wollen seine Innereien

Und schreien

Spring*

A piercing cold and scalding heat. The blood roars. Painful and… cleansing. As if spring had washed over him with rain.

He shifts from foot to foot, swaying, then freezes again on the ridge of green-painted wood. The bow-curved corner of the roof is designed to prevent demons from sneaking into the house, to make them roll down this arc like a springboard and fly off into the sky, falling apart. Now the words roll down the curve.

Jetzt fängt der Mann zu weinen an

Fragt sich was hab ich getan

Ich wollte nur zur Aussicht gehen

Und in den Abendhimmel sehen

Und sie schreien

Spring**

Down below, people are waving and shouting something. Hundreds of sparks are flashed by the cameras: they are trying to capture him. Why? Or maybe it’s not about him? Maybe it’s the building, burrowed into the ground like a giant tree, that catches their attention. Maybe no one notices him at all.