with his back to the window of the orderly flat overlooking Schiller’s golem at Gendarmenmarkt he writes his blog, the content of which is all his sins, from the unconscious nosepicking he once glanced to catch reflected in the u-bahn’s black glass to pulling a long one off
on the pic his memory took home of that cigsucking schoolgirl who brushed his arm on his way out of a news agent, Spiegel rolled tight in its burberry crook, her platinum fringe cinched to his fist on his belly in the daydream later like a bobbing light. regret floods in (sin's twin) as the pleasure ebbs, a grim shade shaking its head over the shock of the copious, the downright hale in a drib’s stead, the heady wipe-up job, all of it gone into the blog. Confessions of a Pedant in the Autumn of his Life draws a respectable village of hits every night, an audience delighting in foibles so nobly limned as to render, eg, his borgia fart at a christening (way back when) almost charming. logging off,

it’s out into the warm winter’s low-ceilinged bunker of sundown, hotel lobbies and monocustomered coffee shops as rundown blocks of yellow in the purpled armature of the pauline disbursion of converted light, the North American pursuant of darkling maps of homelylessness, his curiosity’s pickily feline lonelinesslessness on Jaegerstrasse fraught with clotting silhouettes, circumspect outbursts of halfchatter and horny mirth, a Geschaeftsmanner invasion from Duesseldorf platooning through, the brotherly violence of so many at march in a beerblind line against the baroque blue horizon. he sees one drop

a wallet like the pigeons’ kingsized tip; can’t wait

to write the post on spending it

.