positive, the light that unfortunately is not shining today. Ernst, as can be gleaned from his diary, could spend weeks alone, but he could also spend days doing his best in orphanages. Yes, that was the best one could give to the world, but he had not yet contributed anything. Distracted by his desire to please, even though there was nothing pleasing about him, his know-it-all attitude, even though no one knew better than he did about his ignorance, his absent-mindedness. If only it had led to excess, to intoxication, to ecstasy. But the women, whom he had always been unable to leave in time, did not want to get involved with him in that way, but were all the more willing to do so with those who came after him. Fine. Ernst had also been a womanizer, but one could understand the women who raved about this handsome loner, and one could also understand those who had no time for him, Emanuel. There was nothing else but the path to inner loneliness, to oneself, to the depths of the soul. That seems to be what the voice on the radio is saying, which for some mysterious reason is now working again. When did he turn it on? So far, he has always found the inner soul best at the bottom of a vodka bottle. He has one last one left, and before it is empty, there is no point in really getting involved with himself. Before he tips it back, the stuff is best off ending up inside him. Incidentally, Ernst is said to have been a heavy drinker in addition to his altruistic nature. So at least now he is following his role model. The image of his own soul melts away in the warmth of the drink, which sloshes through his glass in magnificent colors. Never has he felt closer to the core of existence than now, the birch trees, the columbines, the sunlight that is now actually breaking through and refracting through the slats of the blinds. He has understood the meaning of life. He is finally the person he was meant to be.
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