Pomegranate.

I am procrastinating.

I am stealing time.

I don't smoke grey cigars, by the way.

But I like the colour grey.

And brown. And dark green.

But not black.

Portmonnaies may be black. Cameras. Handphones. Neckties. Stuff like that.

The sweater I'm wearing is white with grey writings on it.

It said

Sports est. 1959

But it was covered all over with little red spots. Klitze-klitzeklein.

But no, my sweater is not polka-dotted.

And no, I don't have chicken pox.

It was this: I cut myself a pomegranate after dinner. As dessert.

It bled.

I was surprised.

I wiped the pomegranate blood off the table with a cloth.

In Hamburg, we call the wipecloth Feudel instead of the usual Lappen.

The cloth was white.

I did not rinse it afterwards.

I hung it at the sink.

Because I loved the colours. Real red. On white.

I stood a few seconds and looked at the piece of wipecloth.

Then I rinsed it. The red washed away, leaving only a piece of damp white cloth.

I then took my cut pomegranate into my room to eat.

As I dig into the fruit with a spoon, it spurted blood again.

All over my white sweater.

Did I spell pomegranate right?

In German we call them Granatapfel.

PomegranatePomegranatePromegranatePromegranatePomegranatePome granatePromegranatePromegranatePomegranatePomegranatePromegranatePromegranatePomegranatePomegranatePromegranatePromegranate

Po me gra na te