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It is Winter in Germany. The snow ends just before the slippery pebbled street, like a tide that
froze while making its way to shore. Naked trees stare lifelessly at each other. Houses huddle
together, warming themselves, casting a glow over the evening shadows. White. Grey. Soft
Gold. It could be a picture on a postcard, like the ones they sell at the supermarket. Imagine,
being part of a German postcard. A black dot somewhere to the left.

You spot a slightly displaced bench. It seems to have drifted in along with the tide. You walk
towards it, leaving arthritic dents in the snow. The nylon of your windbreaker gives off faint
whistles as you sit. The whistles are cold. You seat your grocery bag next to you, cup your
mitten hands over your mouth and breathe out softly. The warm moisture permeates through
the wool and cools into the creases of your palms. And when you pull your face back, a ball
of mist momentarily floats in the cup of your hands before fading away into the icy air. You
take out your diary and begin making a sketch of the view. You have always been good at
drawing trees. "Witch Trees", you Once used to call these leafless ones. When you are done
with the first tree you begin drawing a witch, crookedly perched on one of its branches. But it
ends up looking more like a scribble. "Wich Tree" you write the way you used to spell it
Once. There. Your own German Postcard.

A lazy bus hisses by and stops a few feet from you. You wonder if this is the bus that will
take you back to his – your – apartment. You read German as if it were English.
"Order..misterrr..strabay," you read out loud. You pick up your obese grocery bag and your
diary and the bus takes you away.

You take a seat behind two middle-aged women. Their conversation sounds like a series of
gargles and hushes interrupted by an occasional buzz.

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