It’s 2.15 in the morning again, and I’m not sleeping. I look out of the window at the night overcome by a strange sensation that the night is looking at me as well. Two lighted windows in Bleibtreustrasse, but the looking doesn’t stem from them. No it’s BiBi, my leash-animal blog who looks for himself to be seen, and this month of walking wondering him, BiBi has shown me his true face: brother to Narcissus, sister of Agape. Black as endlessness, white as nothingness. Violet as dawn, orange as dusk. BiBi follows no stars, because you’re his star, the back of your head his sun and moon. Is he a good companion, I’m not so sure. He’s loyal no doubt, faithful, doesn’t argue and has no bad habits of his, except his very being seems in nature to be one of a bad habit, like drinking alone, flashing to the night. There is no compass to BiBi, because BiBi is indeed a window, his geometric form a continuous, fluid shape of selective transparency. Marble. Marble is what I wish to touch, to hold on to, forgetting, letting go of BiBi, thick solid soft and hard marble like the statue of Aphrodite and the Tortoise I saw the other day in Altes Museum: Aphrodite’s bare foot supported by the shell of the turtle, leaving no doubt that they walk together. Walking that rounded touchable lasting strength of seasoned slightly chipped marble, so far from BiBi whose virtual momentaneous whisper depends on which curtains are drawn or open at the time BiBi walks the street with me, or where he has his eyes when mine are taken in by Brandenburger Tor, numbered trees or marble for example. BiBi is a window that looks in, not out. That might be good for amorphous whispering through sleepless nights, but it isn’t for novel writing. So now I turn off the light, and wish you all a good night.