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You’re flat on your back on the street And you thought the nineties were over   And they nearly are over, you wonder for a moment what year is it exactly, you know it, you do know it, all year long you’ve been getting up and going to sleep, getting up and going to sleep and running your business and there wasn’t much sleep… but you can’t put your finger on it, you feel your head on the asphalt, as if it had sprung a leak when it hit the ground, is it raining? You’re flat on your back between the cars and you can see the tyres and the wheels, the light refracts and bounces off from an alloy wheel right in front of you, streetlamps, headlamps, night, and you try to make out your face, 1999   No, nothing’s over The violent days were long, but long ago as well, almost not true any more, the years of calm, your head on the asphalt, the city’s quiet on a Sunday and the rain is red, the car is red, right next to you You came alone, even though everyone said, ‘Don’t go on your own!’ but you had to go alone, the nineties are almost over, all we want is to do business, you went to sleep for a bit and got up and it was almost evening by then You had time to drink a coffee and stand outside in the dark garden for a while, it’s getting dark early again now, you wanted to walk down to the lake but the phone rang No, it didn’t ring, you’d put it on silent and you saw it flashing through the window of the veranda The display flashed and flashed in the charger like a miniature lighthouse No, you hear it ringing, you never put it on silent, that must have been somewhere else, you’ve got a whole house full of telephones and none of them are on silent, the phone in your jacket pocket buzzes You turn onto your side and try to reach into your pocket It’s hard, although