A few seconds pass. His gaze goes behind the counter. To a small ornate wooden frame. And an image inside. “Is that Mary?” “No. It’s Jesus. It’s a da Vinci. From a museum in Amsterdam.”
The spindly showman/Shuffled on stage/Dressed as black as night
He is a Kylie tragic, and the CD that’s playing in the car is a compilation.
As we walked to the frozen yoghurt shop we saw a tall slim guy and two happy teenagers with him, walking towards us. I thought, I know him. Something in his body language. I was sure I’d seen him before.
Rijn Collins Berlin, August 2013 My head against a train window, I watch Berlin slide by and listen to Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.