A summer in the 1980s: F wore dark T-shirts and Palestinian scarves, he went to demonstrations and smoked home-rolled cigarettes without filters. Above all, F was the first poet I met in person. He lived only a few hundred meters away from us, and when I went down the stairs to his room in his parents‘ house and heard the rapid clacking of the typewriter keys and after a short hesitation (because I enjoyed that sound) I knocked at his door, he´d say, sit down, I just have to finish this poem. For me, it was the embodiment of freedom, how F sat at his desk, unperturbed by anything, and just wrote down what he was thinking at that moment. He pulled the paper out of the machine and read his latest work to me. I played the role of the critic, posed theses, interpreted, made suggestions. F was amused, and admitted again and again in amazement that he had by no means thought as much about his text as I had. It was unbelievable for me to experience how someone completely wrote down such a structure like a poem. F said it was quite easy and I should try it too. His poems were written in free verses in unjustified print, they took up political and private themes and, of course, I occasionally appeared in them. With all due respect, these works seemed to me to be too accessible, too little mysterious, and I thought that if I ever managed to write a poem, it would have to be very different.