June 9, 2009 To Berlin

Deep into the Deutchebahn, people lay naturally sunder. I suffered their words through the hill-ridden landscapes of Belgium and to Germany, whereupon every hill mounts a monument or temple, exemplary and for-noted, as many before me would attempt to harness its magnanimity with not my pedant inking, but commendable toil and fist. And every so often, bold letters do punch from the squarest of buildings. Difficult is its breath, like rusty pulses of trains gliding rail to rail, yet there is an infinite sadness in the wind quaintly tussling the trees. Blankness wraps itself 'round the muscles of windmills which redirect the wind in places it has not the strength to go on. Regard, this feminine wind playing softly with stiff German fingers. Discreet wonders emerge from the distance as the sun's last rays illuminate the gossamer skin of all things. Much more languidly now, we roll along the thick of the forest where, sustained are, long dead branches by the neighboring bush, and drowsily, they drop to the floor into an anonymous chaplet of thorns.