In the late twentieth century, one man began a journey to hike his desk. This the story of the hands holding the pens writing upon the paper on the desk beneath the man behind that journey.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Eves and Cusps
I lost my accent in the gutter of an alleyway in Germany, a town called Hof, which literally or otherwise means 'place'. I couldn't find it again, though I hadn't more than a moment to look for it before the punk rockers, pink hair dyed neon golden in the moonlight, dragged me across the tracks and into a wine seller forgotten by most--and most of them constituents of the dungeon-esque bar. We listened to Van Morrison and Alman Brothers and Zep; and it seemed that none of us understood more than a mouthful, which generally seemed to be more full of wine than understanding. Arm-in-arm, singing "Sweet Home Alabama", the lights played tricks, simple slights of hand; and staggering through streets unknown to me, I found my way back to the train station thinking an accent a terrible thing to lose.
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