Thoughts on the Silence in Vienna

Nothing from Johannes, certainly nothing from Beethoven.
I'm worried.
What's happening in the 14th district? Penzing. It's far out.
Maybe he fled? Out of the apartment.
Was he alone or did Johannes take him by the hand?

I imagine him climbing up to the Gloriette.
Cold wind.
Up there, the view over Vienna. He sees the old heritage and in between all the new glass-concrete noise.

Or is he seeking the proximity of the dead? Maybe he was at the Hütteldorf cemetery.
Just around the corner.
Does he stand there in front of the strange graves and ramble about the end?
His own death in 1827 – for him, it was just yesterday.
He sees the years on the stones. 1914, 1945, 2020.
A whole sea of time that he just skipped.
Maybe he seeks the silence there that the living cannot give him.

And at home?
Johannes is a painter. Beethoven was never interested in pictures. Nothing left for visual art.
Johannes loves his yellow.
Ludwig loves his tones.
Does Johannes dare anyway?
"Look, Ludwig, this is modern painting..." I see Beethoven's face in front of me.
A growl.

Maybe he's just sitting there staring at the computer again. Is he searching for silence on the net?
Or for people who no longer exist?
Or (...)

The silence in Vienna feels heavy.