1,000 swords fall from the sky. One after the other. All onto the same spot in the asphalt.Someone does a fakie kickflip on the terror barrier in front of the Christmas market. I’m watching the whole thing from a window seat in a café. No idea what to do. I can’t think about anything. Something has taken the world away from me. It was me. At some point I decided it was too stupid for me to bother it with my small thoughts.Right now I wish I had Bruno Schulz’s The Cinnamon Shops with me, even though yesterday I almost scanned the book with the Momox app, packed it into a box with the others, and sold it. At this point I’m thinking about how my texts lack juice. Thingy, what’s-his-name… what was he called again? Whatever. The author I’m thinking of, whose name escapes me at the moment, said a story needs “the juice.” You know who I mean, you’ve seen the clip on YouTube. But this isn’t a story anyway, just a transcription of thoughts.If this were a story, an extremely, extremely, extremely attractive woman would walk into the café now. A 0.001 millisecond glimpse would be enough to set my heart and my loins on fire. In the 0.002nd millisecond it would become clear that my first impression hadn’t deceived me and that she really is extremely hot. 0.003… Self-negation of the immediate emotional reaction; the thoughts kick in: This isn’t good, your image of women is fucked. And a tiny bit of gloom mixes in. Judgment. You’re lost and you should masturbate less, then your thoughts will change and you’ll be able to look women in the eyes with confidence, without shame, and you can start writing about other things instead of always just this! If it’s not already too late for that. I saw a TikTok about it. 0.004 She knocks me off my chair with her tray. Me, her coffee, and the tray fall to the floor simultaneously in slow motion. I’m lying there like a plank on the ground, which is completely filthy from all the urban slush the visitors have dragged into the café with their Uggs and Nike Shox.The falling height of the cup was amplified once more by the height of her heels. I’ve never seen heels that high, not even on the internet. The rim of the cup lands directly on the bridge of my nose and the hot coffee runs under my eyelids and into my nose. 0.005… I jump up, apologize, sit back down calmly, and continue sipping my coffee. The woman and everyone in the café stare at me in disbelief. I try to lighten the situation with a joke: “ … ”That didn’t help at all. The shame slowly rises through my body from my shins up into my head and starts playing a movie there with me in the leading role. I’m tied to a metal chair and from left and right a combat knife is fired into each of my temples with the highest precision. Their tips touch exactly in the middle of my skull and there’s a metallic sound that only I can hear.

Too English — “juice.” Thingy, whatsitcalled… here, what was his name again.

Whatever. The author I’m thinking of, whose name I can’t remember right now, said a story needs juice. You know who I’m talking about. But this isn’t even a story. It’s just a transcription of thoughts. If this were a story, an extremely, extremely, extremely attractive woman would walk into the café right now.

A glimpse lasting 0.001 milliseconds would be enough to set my heart and my loins on fire.

In the 0.002nd millisecond it would become clear that my first impression didn’t deceive me and she really is extremely hot.

0.003…

Self-negation of my immediate emotional (?) reaction. Thoughts kick in: This isn’t good. Your image of women is fucked. And a tiny bit of melancholy mixes in. Judgment. You’re lost and should masturbate less, then your thoughts will change and you’ll be able to look women in the eyes with confidence, without shame, and you can start writing about other things instead of always this stuff! Well, if it’s not already too late for that. I saw a TikTok about it.

0.004 She knocks me off my chair with the tray she carries her coffee on. I fall flat on the floor, which is completely filthy from all the city slush people dragged into the café with their Uggs and Nike Shox. The falling height of the cup is amplified once more by the height of her heels. I’ve never seen heels that high, not even on the internet. The rim of the cup lands directly on the bridge of my nose and the hot coffee runs under my eyelids and into my nose.

0.005… I jump up, apologize, sit back down calmly and continue sipping my coffee. The woman and everyone in the café stare at me in disbelief. I try to loosen the situation with a joke: “…” That didn’t help at all. The shame slowly rises through my body from my shins up into my head and starts directing a feature length movie there with me as the leading role. I’m tied to a metal chair and from left and right a combat knife is shot into each of my temples with highest precision. Their tips touch exactly in the middle of my skull and there’s a metallic sound.

“Eric Schönstein is a German photographer who treats his world like a cancelled tv show that forgot it was being watched. His images exist between evidence and accusation, a dubious fashion shoot and a happy-go-lucky crime scene.

More betweens: the lame glow of contemporary life and the corners of subcultural vanity, aggressively pretending not to know each other. There is something, hmm, let’ say disgustingly surgical about his timing and something awkwardly conspiratorial about his framing.

I fancy the photographs of Eric Schönstein.”

Words by Sina Khani