The hotel is closed; I am the last guest. Sometimes birds come by, and you can hear them quietly walking over the roof tiles. My departure is postponed daily into an increasingly prolonged stay. The building has cracks, and there are warnings before entering. Tomorrow, I will move to the basement, to the supplies. When one has no rights, one can draw on that for a long time. When Michael Krüger received the Peter Huchel Prize, Adolf Muschg remarked about him: "Only the trivial artist always finds the shoe he can confidently put on himself and the reader along his path. For the lover of honesty, too much comes in between: between cause and effect, image and meaning, I and you, lie and truth, life and death. Krüger's poems deal with these gaps." And with the fact that no one knows how to ultimately answer the small and big questions - even if one confronts them.