For all those who mourn after him, love him or just think back on mulled wine and biscuit like.
A piece of heat from Berlin.
Therefore one can admire the city. When you awaken in the morning a warm sun, with rays not so clean windows, more like dusty. Dust glitters in the light. If you find when going out, you have truly dressed to warm you, no need of the sweatshirt, where now? Finally, when the streets are alive, Turkish pastry shops full of tea drinkers, mustachioed, the screaming to chat with foreign words, and yet so familiar because always there. The trees of bright green, the air full of fragrance, full of mixed scents from flowers, cooked, beer, perfume, sweat, a little dirt, the smells of the city, probably even a pile of dog, but the mix is to make you crazy in the head. The meaning of it with your, the cinema opened, and the beauty is that it not only in spirit but in front of eyes and nose, hands and feet under's real. Will walk you walk, dream in the space of awakening streets and houses that are slowly, cautiously yet, but always try becoming bolder from winter and sickly Rigid solve blinking. Blooming finally obscured the lawn, the shore in the morning light fall from the experience of the basement music. Inspired whistling a post man who at his wheel umschlängeln happy a thousand pieces and chairs and the remains of the night force. Walls, gray stained smears, and decorated with hundreds of mouths bespitzengardint, who sing with distorted voices - bad radio and the battery is low. But still. But that's why. That is exactly you want to have, you never lose and always keep and owe each spring end again. So your bike - your bike? - You groan and rusty by paving roads with, but you trohnst high up as King and Emperor, and your hair your veil, your wake of the wind.
