winter dripping from the roofs, hidden from the Stöben rumbles through the toilets, next to the bar time to hide being curled, the thoughts and dreams about what was, at what is still waiting out there covered with virgin snow.
The time sleeps with me in the very exciting is silent, and nothing with me is lost, everything outside is frozen, motionless, to thaw at some point again, unconditionally move me.
anything I had missed. The girls at the table next to wear the same hairstyles, the old seat belt, hear the same music, with fervor, such as those in the years to my birth. The life, awake or dreaming, consists of circles, is his art. And Gianna Nannini was, after all the pains, her first child when I heard a thousand times long as the snowflakes in the wind, the tinnitus of doubt, all of my beginnings end.
So much is not too late. Harren, senses, sleep, dreams, in winter hiding places, such as breathing and flourish before you know it.
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