An artist. She floats on the wreckage of a sunken love affair.
A fragile fairy tale. It collapses; her mind in fragments; her life a tearful cataract.
She is an artist creating beauty out of loss.
The artist must be broken. She must burn; be ash and dust.
An artist. She cannot live in reality. It is a ruin for her.
Only when nothing is left can the artist live again.
An artist. Fly gorgeous bird! Fly. Fly. Like a beautiful plane over the city it bombs to pieces.
She is a horsewoman riding across the plains of the apocalypse.
Out of the dust and ashes an exquisite work of artifice.
Out of the flames a phoenix.
Out of pain a gorgeous woman.
It is Petra von Kant. Her bitter tears raise a sweet flower.
Her face a masterpiece of maquillage.
On her lithe body a green dress; a shroud of jealousy.
Petra has blonde curls. Just like Karin.
Around her neck a black band; it is a sign of loss; a symbol of death.
On the black band a red rose. Her beautiful bullet hole.