A few small things to remember by. A room in a house on a street called Borstal. A windmill visible on the hill up the road, squat and dark, like black-stained wood. A giraffe called Orelie. Amy fucking a chicken. Reading. Cheese, unpasturised and smelt from across the road, a sweet oily stench. Gluten-free bread that was bread-like, edible and wonderfully tasty. Fresh mussels (I am remiss in not eating Oysters). The beach, the waterfront, the harbour, the coast, all those words that miss where the wind hits sharp across my face, stinging pricks of rain. The groins also, and the tiny plant islands contained within each, sheltered from the wind. Yes, the wind also. The walk down narrow, muddy, tree-shrouded paths between beach and house, and the mold streaked concrete railway bridge, from the top all this was visible. I’m forgetting now, already. The train that sped me away, the airport, the airport, waiting, reading, arriving, Berlin at night. My heart has been taken by a hobo baker.
