I don’t know where this sudden urge to share my thoughts comes from. Not my life life, but my way of interpreting everything around me, bending it in favor of my creature world. Like I did with the rats.

Like I did when I met a crow yesterday. She stayed long enough for me to throw peanuts at her (never leaving the house without nuts and seeds), and, strangely, she didn’t fly away. Most crows here do. Either they’re particularly shy, or there are rumors circulating among them about me. Either way, I think I’m making new friends.

I didn’t see her today. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t look. In my dreams, we become best friends, and I give her a name. But what name? I’ve never been good at naming things. My creatures don’t have names. Is that strange? Do they exist without them?

Names seem to be everything when it comes to belonging. Animals name each other, in their own way. A call, a scent, a look that says: you are you. But what about my creatures? Are they outside of our community because they have no name? Or do we just call them friends?

The next creature I’m good at making friends with is pigeons. Pigeons recognize people. Studies suggest they can identify each other too, though whether they have structured “names” remains a mystery. Still, they know who is who.

And in Vienna, I always seem to find a pigeon in need. I pick them up, bring them home for a moment to put them into my professional bird carrier, then take them to a place where they can get help.

I’m obsessed with a new material: clay. I know —I’m late to the game. Clay has been the new yoga for a while, so they say. Where I live, in my very particular district of Vienna, there are now more ceramic studios than yoga studios. Which tells a story, because actually you can do Yoga at every corner.

But I get it. The smoothing of edges, the pressure of hands, the slow revealing of a form—it does something. Like a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Each piece, a creature slowly emerging. No rush. No name yet.

And while we’re talking obsessions: my garden. The rat circus has almost left town. I just keep rotating smells, like a strange little ritual I can’t let go of. But now, it has to be green. Moss everywhere. So I can have endless Tardigrades. Will I have to name them too?

Maybe I’ll just start small. The crow. The pigeon. The first moss patch that really takes hold. A name, whispered into the dirt. Not for ownership, but recognition.

After all, everything deserves to be called something.