Friday night in Hellersdorf. Without the moon.
whole gangs of young people. Between late shifts returnees.
You can feel the cheap alcohol before he smells. On the tarmac there creeps a dung beetle, blue in the gray of the evening shimmer. It is warm, but I did not know that it is warm enough for beetles.
The old woman in a tram muttering words to himself and presses firmly on the stop button which is green, and laid before her. Perhaps to soothe the flowers on her head scarf them.
Who knows.
stick to the only cinema posters of German films.
It will close soon anyway.
all hope lost in the district. All except those who do not live here.
Everything seems a bit sad, resigned a little and very blurred.
You need glasses.
I mix the evening with red wine, white wine, with shakuhachi sounds and the dream of a thirteen-year-olds. Between Japanese pop and the words of Mrs. Lasker-Schüler, who was as lost as I do, everything seems ermatttet and amusing.
One would sing, if you know what.
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