Beer crate.

There is a white object, once meant to be sat on, now twisted into a shape without ambition. It might have been a camping chair, if that word had any meaning in a world where sitting, camping, or relaxing are concepts that exist only in overgrown brochure texts from times long gone. The chair has not collapsed, because even that would be an action. No, it simply… remains. A steadfast symbol of the persistent nothing.

He stands on a scaffolding that no longer has a function, above what was once a lake but is now mostly a collection of cracks in the earth. Water has evaporated here for centuries, lost its way or left in insult. What remains is mud brick with the texture of forgotten holiday photos: dry, grainy, and no one remembers who stood on it.

Next to the chair is a beer crate. Empty. Empty for a long time. So empty that it almost seems active, like a statement. The crate looks back at the chair, not out of involvement, but simply because it was once placed there and then everything stopped. There is no meaning, no intention, and not even a failed attempt at it. Only this situation: a dialogue between two objects without a voice, that have nothing to say, but have nevertheless been stuck with each other for centuries.

The chair is shriveled, its legs bent as if it had once been startled by something and then forgotten what it was. One arm hangs crooked, the other sticks up in a kind of eternal greeting of despair to a sky that has long since stopped listening. There are no sounds. The air is still, the ground is still, even time seems to have stopped here a little and then given up.

There are no footsteps, no voices, no hint that there was ever any movement here. And yet the whole scene seems charged with something. Not expectation—it’s too late for that. More like a kind of ironic reminder of the idea of expectation. As if this place had once prepared itself for something that didn’t come, and has refused to clear away ever since.

The beer crate, angular and indestructible like a misplaced promise, stands motionless. No bottle in sight. No cap. Not even a cap print in the plastic. Only emptiness in its purest form: an object that has lost its function and does not resist it in any way. No regrets, no rebellion, just apathy in geometric form.

There is a silence between them that leaves no room for poetry. No melancholy, even. More like a kind of tired businesslikeness. As if the world has left these two relics as the last documentation of a forgotten culture of use, without explanation, without context, and above all: without interest.

No sunset, no rising mist, no meaningful gesture of nature. Only dust, old wood, crooked shadows, and two objects that keep looking at each other out of sheer habit. Or out of lack of alternatives. Maybe that is what they share: a shared, eternal meaninglessness that never needs to be named because it is so complete and perfect in itself.

And so they remain. Not as monuments. Not as relics. But as skipped sentences in a forgotten story, too persistent to disappear, too insignificant to be noticed.

Rain could fall, but it doesn’t. Someone could come back, but it doesn’t. There could be movement, but even the insects have put their hopes elsewhere. Everything has solidified into a form of waiting that no longer knows expectation. The camping chair, the beer crate, the jetty, the lake—they breathe together in a rhythm that changes nothing. Only going on, stillness as a form of progress.

And so they remain there. Not as objects with meaning, but as remnants of a meaning that never really wanted to remain. Silent. Cold. And unnecessarily present.