Daughter Laura (4) has kidnapped three snails from the garden and placed them next to the cheese plate. Now she wants her dad to praise her for it. At the other end of the breakfast table, little brother Simon (2) greets the visitor with "Hello, Pubsa!", even though it was only yesterday that we negotiated the renunciation of his favourite word, simply BECAUSE of the visit. But the little bugger is hard to understand anyway. On the sofa, the youngest, Tim, four months, demands the immediate provision of his mother's breast at the top of his voice. Girlfriend Iris sprints around the flat, her pulse racing at the limit. Head of the family Wolfram could at least take care of the snails, Iris's look leaves little room for interpretation. But Wolfram Kurschat (33) seems absent, logged out of the here and now. He sits there lost in thought, his gaze turned inwards, his fingers plucking at a piece of pretzel in slow motion. You don't really know whether he's going to give an answer. It feels like minutes have passed since the question was asked without him visibly reacting. "Wolfram always questions everything," Iris tries to fill the communication gap from the sofa, with Tim crying on her chest. The seconds stick to the moment, while the environment rolls off Kurschat like Teflon. Now his fingers freeze on the pretzel.
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