sketch pad

meine umwelt

avec moi, sans moi,

par moi

Ahh… and the tales I shall unfold

May blast comprehension if the truth be told

An ode to the masters, martyrs and whims

A satyr on life and sullied daydreams


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We will work. We will trade.

Leave an offering at the rock.

There is a legend of a rock, which rock? What rock?

The one outside. What is left after the colourful chippings brought in and offered, and the broken citizens returned to their new owners.

There is only sand. We need water. We need wood. We need humus. We need grain. You have water, wood, humus, grain. We have magical talls to trade.

No longer.

We will respect your laws, your customs, your families. We know how to grow, to work, to produce, to trade. To educate and entertain. We have giant feets and westernmost isles. What is beyond this sand?

What happened?

Hell. Or time. Will you let us in?

Leave an offering at the rock and we will see.

Shall we seek our priests and send them? They have magical ways with your people. They know all. They achieve all. Everything bends to their desires. Every wish is realised. We have the most beautiful, most valuable, women: they produce the most amazing sons. We cannot find our temples, but we will seek our priests and send them to you. They can cure you of mysterious illnesses and raise the dead.

Will they offer their magic at the rock?

We can build you infrastructure: clean your water, process your food, administrate your medicines, offer defence in the dark, see to your every comfort, your children. We have y'east and all.

You may leave an offering of clean air at the rock and the island in the meddlian.

You want the rock on the island in the meddlian? We can do that - for water, for wood, for humus, for grain.

There is a volcano. It may see to your every need but it may take time. Good day.


and thus Little Sir Echo and his place(s) in the margins of the world, in the folds between reality and non, were understood.

(19th May ‘17)