A Recent Scene in Gloomminster
At times even the flâneur is seized by the sense of being an unbidden guest on his own streets. The houses stand as ever, the squares are familiar—and yet another timbre hangs over the scene, a tone of estrangement. A droning call rises that is not ours—shrill, overbearing, like Tarzan swinging past on his liana. Loud, foreign, immoderate. One turns up one’s collar, quickens one’s step, and knows: here, where I am meant to be at home, I am suddenly a stranger. And then, unannounced, another voice begins. A violin, a ’cello, German words, a song of Christ. At...
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