The stables of the Federal Equestrian Institute

I know this night light. Fifty-year-old lightbulbs, which paint the stables in a winking dirty yellow. An armored green laser stripe lifts off. And there, at the end of town, where twelve headlamp graces stumble along the stadium over the bloated belly of underground car lights, like Marlene Dietrich's bones, also stands the Novotel Ibis, As white as chalk like a Siberian ice cube.

In front of his entrance, where an old chestnut tree, tall and covered with pitted cones the yawn of a lounge bar, a futuristic rubbish bin with a pinch foot also grows out of the tram track. And guided to bluish haze spindles, A few isolated workbooks flit across the square every ten minutes. Whether they can still reach the step, Tram No.. 4, Towards the train station, City center?

Because these are not double lattice fences, provided with sensors, that one, further back, the administrative wing with its sports department, Armaments and civil protection cover up like metal avenues, aus denen Mimikry-Vögel schiessen, one arrives at them (?). While the shadow man is sneaking around the building of the education department again, every evening at ten, Burning holes with its sparkle, mightier than a four-ton pumpkin, Karat Haloween, over the forehead, in the flawless sour pot rock? There are windows in it. Und im Sommer rasselt
Flute wind down through the closed blinds, a house makes music!- Rung by rung …

Closed inside, like a brooch!

Cacophony of unhappy coincidence. Gaps, upgraded floors, yellow Struwwelpeter, between doormat, at the Anonyma Maloch strips off his greeting and pump shell, Pick a shake for free, unbekannter Farbe.

Who lives here. Here is someone at home. Willkommen im Herzen der Vor- and agglomerations!

But then this intense one increases, spicy smell to the nose.
Und in dem Geruch galoppiert der ampelrote Hengst mit der jungen Heldin obendrauf, past the pedestrian crossing and away, over rugged English countryside! Softly curved. With or without a mission! To save the man in distress over the raging abyss with one finger, at the end of the penultimate chapter!

Maybe she doesn't even love him.

And in this smell, every girl has a horse for her hero, like every horse as a heroine this young girl. How does it smell today?

I know this night song. On the left the stables with their boxes, that may be empty like tooth glasses, the hut on the right, in der ich einmal nach einem Verirrten, Traitor, Perverts sought, a little romantic and found a couple of sacks of sour cement instead.

A faint crescent moon hangs over the hut. Except for a quiet one, stubborn scraping everything lies quietly and peacefully, in almost complete darkness the obstacles in the baked on by sleep (Tolkien)Park.

(4.11.17 )