Viewing the local antiquities

The corner. 
Walking home from the station in the dusk, chilled in the rain no hood for my head and never an umbrella:

The door to Angel's brothel is open; the windows, dark. Now comes the grandmotherly mama-san into the entranceway, lugging two green bulging garbage bags out the street; she dumps them. I wave. She waves. I cross the street

"Say Hi to Angel for me."

"Honey, we have new place. You have a pen?"

She writes. "You call me, I arrange Angel."

She has been in this country a long time. No Viagra, no budget for Angel or anyone this week, a touch of the flu, and Die Zeit, die ist ein sonderbar Ding still running through my head.

Walk between the raindrops!


The Corner
[1], [2], [3], [4], [5], [6], and [7].


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