lay on the street
I often looked down on the mattress and by the sloping window in the gray sky. I lived in a small crate in the attic. The sheets, flexed-kig, gray and rumpled stank of sweat and dust glued. It was the smell of a paralysis that is slowly eating into the lungs. From day to day growth of disgust. But give the sheets to the laundry, I was able to rouse me. Drifting with daydreams that such a gloomy and muddy color accepted as the light as it passes through the crusty ground window to the leaked with packing paper plastered walls, I always fell back into sleep, from which I awoke, sluggish and stiff, with one on the breast like a lump of squatting dullness.
long time repeated a dream that my hair falling in clumps from his head, a cold wind gets up and drives them from a distance like dry leaves in front of them, and the storm is my bald head. At night, penetrated from the lower storey of the lustful panting up the tenant below me. The walls, the air was filled with the rattle, from coughing, the screams of women.
sat for hours on the ground and I looked through the low window on the night train network, to the lonely red signals, the vast warehouses, the distant railway bridge, the beams and sheets were eroded by the weather, I looked across the river, the brown goods trains range in the morning twilight.
The wrapping paper broke slowly from the walls. But I continued to live here, because I lacked a solid source of income. Moreover, I also came at a time when I was a liquid, not the idea in a brighter and more airy apartment to move. It was the effort of the move, which deterred me, as any company in the outside world bother me. Even thought the room, as it was me inconvenient visitors at bay. No one would ever have thought of me in this leaky hole, which was stifling and oppressive in the summer and winter smoky and windy, to visit or even to einzuquartieren overnight there. In a way, I liked the state. It was as if I verkröche me in a spout like a camouflage-seeking insects, and the disgust of the other protected from this place myself.
I had a leather screen for the own sink-ken, where I washed myself, a large table, a brass lamp with green shade, two deep easy chairs and a tattered engraving from the Place des Vosges from a time when in the middle of the place no trees were planted around the statue of Louis XIII. A geometric Liebeshof where is the beautiful Marion Delorme at the arcades. The chairs were indeed from the glue, but I was already accessible on the mattress.
It was bright up there. The other tenants of the numerous cage apartments of this stone box had been allocated to the adjacent storage small shed, and sometimes when they opened a padlock to be in their belongings dig, they discovered in the corners of breeding birds that had come crawling through the roof cracks. Run-down apartment building
from the period of wooden stairs and toilets on the mezzanine, and strange people like the Fat, the Celts with umwik, rubber plug in the water stockings legs was walking around on the ground floor living and working for a black funeral home. That is, he coffined one of the dead. Sometimes he was on the highway to pick up the dismembered parts of the victims. Once, he said, a hand was cut off across the road, and the policeman had to puke.
The fat was the only person with whom I spoke a day. He always hung in the open window to the street, smoking a cheap off-colors, and I hear his asthmatic rasp, it jibt Fliejen, Fliejen when the weather was sultry. A sad butterball with a slow death in the veins. The clumsy manner in which he is on the Street pushed objected to his ridiculously relentless speech needs. Anytime, day or night he said to me, whether I entered or left the house.
no conversation between us went off without a dirty joke. Then he winked at his wife, who usually lying around with missing teeth in the stuffy apartment.
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