Ref.:  'Lili Marlene'                          

Q.: Aren’t you a vexatious groupie, Charlotte forevermore? Wasting your only life in pursuit of the man who couldn’t sell the world. You keep hanging on to his imaginary image like the last disciple of a fallen prophet. He’s been the Leitmotiv of your inept struggle for fame on the outskirts of the Purgatory where the ambitious antitalents vegetate. Following your transmuting idol wherever he moved like a spirit stalker. Forty years of three M’s couldn’t break the gracious spell of Ziggy Stardust. What are you still trying to prove? 
A.: Everybody needs a star to guide him. Everybody’s somebody’s fool. Only idolatry purifies the soul. And it has to be one amongst the many. Focus is everything. I’ve only made the right choice. He never let me down. 
Q.: Except for consequently rejecting your infantine attempts of propinquity. You’ve tried all his different   personae but could never break through the sound barrier. Could never tear down the wall of silence. Do you believe you’ll succeed now when he ain’t got the power any more? The execrable victory of a perseverant vampire?
A.: All of my simulated life as a boothless earthling I’ve been a Bowie-fan. Working hard to return him the  tremendous favor of living with us. “The Third Covenant” was channelled as a repayment of the transcendental debt I felt proudly owing. I wanted to show up as his prediction come true. Just in case of sunrise. Behind the artsy façade I was appealing for his Baptism. That’s all I ever craved and nothing less. Old habits die hard. ‘Lili Marlene’ might be my terminal trial. I don’t know where he is right now but I cannot vacillate. This is the comeback my world is waiting for. Suddenly, the conclusion. The finale of Baal.
Q.: I do not doubt your benevolent intents. But what can you do? You’ve spent all your lonely years of espionage on figuring which way to contact him. After having lost ‘The Contest’ you promised you won’t do it again. But have only duplicated your efforts like I knew you would. Scouting in hotel lobbies, sending odious messages through grapevines. Aren’t you sincerely ashamed yet of this post-romantic work-affair? Universal refugee desperately harassing superstar. What a slapstick comedy! 
A.: No, I’m not. Not sincerely. It’s been a fascinating hope. Something worthwhile to precipitate. It well prolonged my youthful folly. I cannot stop it now, just because it’s over. A last essay through the Internet at my service. That’s all I’ve got. The miracle of science.
Q.: You are naïve, my filthy groom of doom. Since do not understand to anything practical, you mystify technology like an aborigine. Electronic mail has no more chance to penetrate than a recommended airborne. That he’s your friend on MySpace is a formality, Spiel! Don’t believe in the demons of democracy.
A.: Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. I’m using the rest, comme d’habitude. I never could secure a direct link to him. I only can walk the irrational way. Repeating the same old mistake in an updated manner. The hermit strikes again. But this time it is for good.

                                                                                           
Q.: You are a stone age man in the electric ladyland. An unidentifiable hiding subject. Your anonymity tells everything on you. The unfamiliar is invisible. That’s your Catch-22. 
A.: I’m a poor idealist but one thing I’m certain of. This story cannot end unhappily. The Author is a systematic 
writer. He wants his fave back with a bang. It is my guilty pleasure to provide him a golden coach of return
Q.: Your pretty brainchildren have always been quite premature rebirths. None of them survived the incubation. This latest neonate won’t be any different, I’m afraid. Just another defunct Hermes baby.
A.: The démarche of ‘Lili Marlene’ is very different from my preceding approaches. Only comparable to the reconquest of New Jerusalem. It’s not another cry for help but an unashamed gift asking nothing in exchange. 
Q.: Except for the hand of the bride, of course. You cannot modulate your original tone any false it sounds. And has gone completely out of tune by this endtime. In reality he needs you lesser than ever before. He is a legendary recluse now withdrawn from the spotlight. Casualty of a Promethean chastisement that defies commentary. You are flirting the living dead. That’s what’s really happening.
A.: To be a fly in his net has been my exclusive desire. A profane illusion ignoring the facts. I’m shouting out to the beauty and the beast. To help him with the pain. He’s not asleep, he’s a spider. He’ll recognize a delicious prey if they let him taste it. 

                                                                         
Q.: You may be bitterly mistaken, DJ Helmut of Nova Akropola. There is no palpable similitude between the interfering solitudes of you two. He has left a world behind you could never reach even by the margins. You expected him to testify an alleged Antichrist. He never even heard about anyone like you. The symphonic black metal you’re playing tonight wouldn’t resonate with his wounded heart. His taste is jeopardized, his hate is consumed. He’d betray destruction for tolerance. I only hope he won’t come back with a hiphop album before going out. 
A.: ‘Lili Marlene’ is the result of mysterious coincidences. Originally, the text had no particular pretense. I wrote it for the next scheduled song of my rock operetta based on the reiteration of old melodies. That it was synchronized with the twentieth anniversary of the Berlin Wall’s coming down was a revelation. But it was still strictly about SPIONS, my personal account of alternative history. Then one miracle goodnight night lines of “Heroes” started to creep in the classic texture with a perfect cadence, what’s more. It was a stellar manifestation. A fortuity to commemorate the end of history in an ultimate metaphor. A glorious message of treason über alles. A sublime pact of secret agents. I therefore selflessly forgot about myself and started to blend the two familiar motifs into one tribute. It was the sweetest taboo I ever shattered. Nectar from Erato. I finished the song right on the dot of the jubilee. Whilst U2 threw their rally at the Brandenburger Tor. It became my pawn of revenge. Cannot remain a transitory whim.
Q.: I’m glad you had a good time but don’t let yourself be deceived so easily. You are a sucker of accidents and your subconscious is a spoiled bitch. You premeditate surprises and call it divine inspiration like Voltaire’s ghost. All you aspire is to spread your perverted views by all crooked means. A torpid esoteric running scared. 
A.: I didn’t mean it then to send the text to him. That indistinct input came a bit belated. But still tangible for a Prague Spring if we hurry up. Just call Visconti aboard. So I’ve forwarded a message marked urgent. 
Q.:  Don’t play to me the virgin like an old whore. You know subreality better than that. There is no room for change in your occasional dream. Just the telepathetic quest of the lost horizon.
A.: I have re-sent the message ten times for ten consecutive days for probability’s sake. Both private and public.
It was an offensive. It should have triggered some reaction.
Q.: Your promotory note was rather unattractive. Arrogant and ambiguous. Designed for the spam folder. And to attach the lyrics was an obnoxious dare. You’re not afraid of getting ripped off, are you? You know the face value of your wanton trash too well.
A.: No one could double-cross this Rubicon. Our liaison cannot be shared. The news is about the invincible victory of unbreakable love. The reconstruction of the demolished house.

                                                                           
Q.: Get out of the garden, baby, before you catch the cold. To amalgamate Bowie and Dietrich in one traitorous corpus of the bygone century isn’t such an epochal trouvaille as you find it with your pop-infested brains. Just another gag of gratuitous exploitation. That was then and this is now. Your eventual reanimation plan is way too exquisite to stir up a new wave of constructive nostalgia. It wouldn’t touch down to the contemporary audience. You are reproducing a fictitious past for no future’s sake. A singular reminiscence unpoised to be a commercial hit. 
A.: ‘Lili Marlene’ is a terrific medium to resurrect the spectre of Nüremberg. A Neofolk requiem for the collective dream. Monument of an evaporating culture. A megalith of consciousness in the barren fields of the Nephilim. The cheese cake of the marriage supper.
Q.: Nobody should accept presents from a stranger. People are exhausted by their own impulses. They have no ear to lend to someone else’s idiocy. You can’t impose your caprices for free like an arch communist. Business is a venture of the elect. Its rules can’t be sidestepped.
A.: I am not coming wholly empty-handed. I am backed by the phantom of the Kingdom. ‘Lili Marlene’ is a message from the Overnational Socialist Party. If it can be snubbed I’m not what I am.
Q.: A deranged zealot from the mental asylum, that’s what you literally are. And it’s more transparent than cellophane. Some obnoxious monstrosity is shining through. Unworthy of a second glance. 
A.: ‘Lili Marlene’ is a heraldic code smuggled in. It contains our entire ideology in a blue diamond ring. A superbone for the ailing dog. A missive from the Church on Dead Time. It should instantly make him party.
Q.: Your chickenshit rhetoric won’t back you out of the intellectual quagmire. Vainly you declare yourself to be an impostor, the suspicion that you maybe aren’t will always linger on. Your immodest offering is a stupendous demand. What you have always wanted from him was to produce your rise. This final notice is no exception. You are a terrible suitor, 888. Madman across the water.
A.: ‘Lili Marlene’ has a most delicate undertone between us. It demonstrate the true brotherhood of soul above the lines of blood. Marlene Dietrich on the top of the Oshist triangle is our common Mother. The mystery of New Style unfolds in a populist allegory.
Q.: The more you add to it, the more obscure your complexity becomes. What if he would simply steal your concept? Just automatically, without ever deigning a reply. Ain’t Mr. Jones the uncrowned king of all thieves and liars? Ain’t that why you trust him? What would you do then, rat of the gutter? Couldn’t afford to sue him for money…
A.: I’d be jubilant to be stolen by him. My first priority has always been recognition. I’m not in this for pelf.  I’m a noble beggar from the outer circuit. My ego is dead and buried. Just a machine, Marlene.