She stumbles off the doorstep. The door slams. Ochsenblut. There are places where the paint has been sanded away. The upper keyhole takes the key with the orange cap. Dry plastic has cracked open. There are brothers and sisters to these keys elsewhere. No one knows how many pairs have been produced since these apartments were built. They were advised to change the locks.

Into the backyard. Around the corner are all the garbage cans. To the left, food waste. To the right, paper, then packaging and residual waste. She throws away the bag full of diapers and bathroom waste. Each bag is tied up. Filled with memories. Only the paper lies open for everyone to see, someone has ordered new sneakers and herbal tea.

Out to the street. In front of the building, stumps of smoked cigarettes. Each tied to a house number and a surname on a doorbell.

Where the building meets the pavement, cookie wrappers. Words she cannot quite read.

Ahead, a row of glass containers. One green, one white and one brown with graffiti running down. Between and next to the containers, wine bottles, sekt bottles and empty pasta sauce jars on the pavement and in sturdy shopping nets with pastel motifs. The bottles stand next to each other, sleep next to each other. They cast spots of light on the ground and clank together when she moves. Inside, broken glass sparkles in the dark.

Up a flight of stairs, a red shopping bag. Only the word home is visible. Inside are folded fabrics. She walks past. Pushes the stroller.

With every word the child learns, something narrows.

At the intersection, the orange rubbish bin. Out of the opening, a bottle that cannot be pledged, a napkin with something red and parts of an umbrella where the metal and fabric are only attached at a couple of points. Under stands a three-wheeled pram.

Across the road, a row of electrical boxes with half-torn posters with faces. In front, a pile of clothes has gathered. A machine-knitted acrylic sweater, a cushion cover from the 80s with cartoon animals, shoes without laces and something with glitter. Rain is forecast for tomorrow.

She walks on, looking at the stones cast into the square slabs. Pink-speckled, gray-speckled, brown and black stones.

Entering the park, her gaze shifts to the leaves. Walks faster. Eyes flicker and eyelids tremble. The light and the leaves merge. The stroller wobbles and wings grow from her shoulders. The air lifts her. Jeans tighten between the legs. Several meters beneath lies a broken pot and two playing cards. The soles of her shoes almost brush the curls at the top of the bronze sculpture. She thinks about when she became a troll. Lying on her side, the child sucked out the fluid her body had made. The mass, like concrete, sank into the mattress.

There is feces on the ground. A shiny oil-colored stain. It teems with flies that lift off as she walks past. She smells it. She picks at her cuticles.

By a green bench, a semi-transparent plastic bag full of papers. Please send in additional documentation. The pile grew. A man jogs by. His lungs fill. She licked stamps and signed. The wrong number had been sent in. The deadline had passed. There is nothing we can do. The apartment smelled of mould.

The fence that used to create a moiré wave when you passed is now covered in hanging ivy. You can still see the backs of tombstones in various shapes and the blue plastic watering cans hung with bicycle locks. Feathers are spread along the fence, sometimes several together. Across the road, a crow stands and watches. Scattered around are gold confetti mirrors. They reflect the clouds and the sky.