Fri, 10th Mark
get up, shower brush the teeth. In a fog, almost asleep. Return to the bedroom, throw the night clothes onto the bed in preparation for this evening. The cat arrives, it wants its head scratched, When the hand is held out, it butts the head against it. Then she closes the eyes and purrs Down into the street, along the alley, the two bright shops opposite, the one lovingly decorated with old clothes, the other empty and bare. at the bus stop, there is the bog cotton man, bareheaded, short-shorn hair. Thin hair, white.
In the bus there is a girl doing the final touches to her make-up, on the go - so as to speak. Mascara on the eyelashes, turned up lashes, impossibly long. But the dark mascara suits her black skin and brown eyes. Her hair is a myriad of tiny plaits. She is on the bus regularly.
Arriving at the station see the pigtail smoker leave another bus, and he hurries over to his regular spot at the ashtray to have his early cigarette.
The coffee ordered and paid for, Mr Hedgehog seen and greeted, the coffee sipped and the notes commenced.
A film on television shows pictures of maintenance work on mountain railways.
Platform Six!
The Train is rushing through a steadily-brightening dawn landscape at this time of year. The ground almost black, the houses protruding out of this darkness as glowing white blocks with "black roofing. Trees are silhouetted against a dark, conifers and bare deciduous trees.
The water in the river reflects the sky, all of the ripples shimmering mysteriously.
and the train has reached Moosbarg, all street lamps beside sleeping houses, a grain elevator, a half empty communal parking house.
And a man sits down opposite, a canary yellow sweatshirt over blue jeans, a bald head and dark-rimmed glasses. Not to forget the grey scarf about his neck.
The day is brighter now, five minutes later The train is reaching Freising.
get up, shower brush the teeth. In a fog, almost asleep. Return to the bedroom, throw the night clothes onto the bed in preparation for this evening. The cat arrives, it wants its head scratched, When the hand is held out, it butts the head against it. Then she closes the eyes and purrs Down into the street, along the alley, the two bright shops opposite, the one lovingly decorated with old clothes, the other empty and bare. at the bus stop, there is the bog cotton man, bareheaded, short-shorn hair. Thin hair, white.
In the bus there is a girl doing the final touches to her make-up, on the go - so as to speak. Mascara on the eyelashes, turned up lashes, impossibly long. But the dark mascara suits her black skin and brown eyes. Her hair is a myriad of tiny plaits. She is on the bus regularly.
Arriving at the station see the pigtail smoker leave another bus, and he hurries over to his regular spot at the ashtray to have his early cigarette.
The coffee ordered and paid for, Mr Hedgehog seen and greeted, the coffee sipped and the notes commenced.
A film on television shows pictures of maintenance work on mountain railways.
Platform Six!
The Train is rushing through a steadily-brightening dawn landscape at this time of year. The ground almost black, the houses protruding out of this darkness as glowing white blocks with "black roofing. Trees are silhouetted against a dark, conifers and bare deciduous trees.
The water in the river reflects the sky, all of the ripples shimmering mysteriously.
and the train has reached Moosbarg, all street lamps beside sleeping houses, a grain elevator, a half empty communal parking house.
And a man sits down opposite, a canary yellow sweatshirt over blue jeans, a bald head and dark-rimmed glasses. Not to forget the grey scarf about his neck.
The day is brighter now, five minutes later The train is reaching Freising.
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