Friday, November 11
Awaken from a deep sleep and sweet dreams, the details now forgotten. Fumble the mobile telephone into silence, go to the bathroom, wash for the day. Play with the new camera, collect a lens from the secretary cupboard.
. Leave the house. The cat is no-where to be seen. On the way out, pick up a cushion that has fallen from the seat beside the entrance and replace it on the seat.. It is raining. chooemdo. The cobbles are lacquered with rain, they are reflecting the street lamps in the alley, and the lights from both shop windows.
In a hurry now, it is a bit late again. The flowers around the golden stones let into the pavement have been dissipated by the rain, they are wet and soggy now. Just before reaching the bus stop, pass 7eachermann, locking up his bicycle at the town gate. Dolores is at the bus stop, waiting in the shelter in in the company of one young man. A small old woman from the Balkan, and a young man from Africa.
Board the bus last, and sit on a free bench. A few stops later, watch Dolores leave the bus ⇒
At the railway station, the pigtailed smoker has taken shelter under the awning in front of the railway station. He says good morning, a greetings exchange.
Inside the station building, in the railway cafe, that young man serving, the one with the shaven head, looks up and inquires -'One large cafe?", Assent by nodding, say thank you, pay, let him stamp the ticket.
There is a crowd of painters in the cafe Today, all with soiled working clothes. They are all in high spirits. There are pictures of protesting Americans on the television screen, the news ticker informs that Leonard Cohen has died.
It is a subdued Friday, a dark November morning, and the day is just beginning. The working week is going to it's end.
Platform six, the train comes in at walking pace, stops, starts again, stops, moves on slowly, stops. Then the green lights go on, and those who have been pacing along beside the train may board now, they press the buttons, the doors open.
The train is quiet today, and it rushes through the hitch black landscape, past MOOSBURG, on to FREISING,
Awaken from a deep sleep and sweet dreams, the details now forgotten. Fumble the mobile telephone into silence, go to the bathroom, wash for the day. Play with the new camera, collect a lens from the secretary cupboard.
. Leave the house. The cat is no-where to be seen. On the way out, pick up a cushion that has fallen from the seat beside the entrance and replace it on the seat.. It is raining. chooemdo. The cobbles are lacquered with rain, they are reflecting the street lamps in the alley, and the lights from both shop windows.
In a hurry now, it is a bit late again. The flowers around the golden stones let into the pavement have been dissipated by the rain, they are wet and soggy now. Just before reaching the bus stop, pass 7eachermann, locking up his bicycle at the town gate. Dolores is at the bus stop, waiting in the shelter in in the company of one young man. A small old woman from the Balkan, and a young man from Africa.
Board the bus last, and sit on a free bench. A few stops later, watch Dolores leave the bus ⇒
At the railway station, the pigtailed smoker has taken shelter under the awning in front of the railway station. He says good morning, a greetings exchange.
Inside the station building, in the railway cafe, that young man serving, the one with the shaven head, looks up and inquires -'One large cafe?", Assent by nodding, say thank you, pay, let him stamp the ticket.
There is a crowd of painters in the cafe Today, all with soiled working clothes. They are all in high spirits. There are pictures of protesting Americans on the television screen, the news ticker informs that Leonard Cohen has died.
It is a subdued Friday, a dark November morning, and the day is just beginning. The working week is going to it's end.
Platform six, the train comes in at walking pace, stops, starts again, stops, moves on slowly, stops. Then the green lights go on, and those who have been pacing along beside the train may board now, they press the buttons, the doors open.
The train is quiet today, and it rushes through the hitch black landscape, past MOOSBURG, on to FREISING,
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