Third of September, and the cold is already awake. Although the car windows have started to sweat and you can see your breath, I walk to work in shorts and a t-shirt. I'm not clinging on to summer. I just won't get cold. The people at the bus-stop stare like I'm crazy as I walk past. If they're not smoking, they gaze into their phones. I hear some reaching despair because the bus is over a minute late, and buses are always on time in Germany. In a place like this, you can only be crazy. I thank god for the unreliable countries, and that I've known them.

The guy who looks in a haze of cordial bewilderment: eyes wide bald at the front, white eyes mirroring his teeth, signs me out of the concrete; the industry growing around the weeds.

I see lovers in the town with some kind of formal love. Contained and conscious. Careful thinkers. I wonder what sounds they consume and hold in their bellies. The children? The river? Does he imagine how she hears the river? There must be something I don't understand some existential commitments. Dead and plenty. I imagine how she hears the river in each season: four different rivers; four new rivers, and she'd never have walked by his side. Not like this. Not so wasted, so native.
Written by MrAlptraum (Mr A)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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