Deviant Poet
@AlternativeLie1
Finding my self one tweet at a time #ifb%100
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Nydegg Bridge, throws its long, reddened spikes along Kramgasse to the giant clock that measures time, illuminates the underside of balconies.
There are few visitors. Gradually, the woman gains strength, eats more, loses the heavy lines in her face.
The young woman is deserted by her lover, marries a man who will let her have solitude with her pain.
Kramgasse strikes the quarter hour. If, for the moment, one ignores the sounds and the smells of the city, a remarkable sight will be seen.
It is evening. Two couples, Swiss and English, sit at their usual table in the dining room of the Hotel San Murezzan in St.
Grandparents never die, nor do great-grandparents, great-aunts and great-uncles, greatgreat-aunts, and so on, back through the generations, all
Bahnhofplatz and race through the narrows of Marktgasse, their occupants shouting from second-floor windows.
Houses and apartments, mounted on wheels, go careening through Bahnhofplatz and race through the narrows of Marktgasse, their occupants shouting
These time-deaf are beseeched to describe the precise placement of trees in the spring, the shape of snow
It pinkens, it turns hard, it is carried in a shopping sack to the grocer’s, put on a shelf, removed and crated, returned to the tree with pink
The woman makes excursions from her small house, goes to the market, occasionally visits a friend, drinks tea at cafés in good weather.
He crated the chemicals at his factory in Basle as soon as he heard the awnings open over the market.
At night, the streets are ablaze with lights, so that passing houses might avoid collisions, which are always fatal.
Three-storey houses with red-tiled roofs and dormer windows sit quietly on Aarstrasse, overlooking the
The cherries in the fruit stalls sit aligned in rows, the hats in the millinery shop are neatly stacked, the flowers on the balconies are arranged
A liberation fills the air. Just now, for example, a woman with brown eyes is speaking to her mother about how little time they spent together
They take pleasure in reading whatever magazines are open, or rearranging furniture in their homes, or slipping into conversation the way a leaf
A soft rain on a spring day, on a walk that is the last walk a young man will take in the place that he loves.
A train with red cars, on a great stone bridge with graceful arches, a river underneath, tiny dots that are houses in the distance.
Just now, for example, a woman with brown eyes is speaking to her mother about how little time they spent together in her childhood, when the
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