The streets are a mix of old world cobblestone and concrete.
The men are dressed lavishly in suits and pipes, giving them the appearance of wise scholars.
Bicycle’s are left here and there, leaning against buildings like wallflowers watching the lovers walk on by.
The streets look uniquely identical. Each building has its own character of its former owner.
Creating a patchwork quilt lining the street in this fashion.
They remind me of more romantic era’s where men would sit and write poetry while drinking espresso.
-I’m in the train station hiding away from a friendly downpour. It seems the crispy cold air is running too, wrapping its fingers around my form. I complain only a little to my sister patiently waiting next to me. I day dream of living in Oxford and riding my bicycle to the book store and picking up something by Walt Whitman. I entertain the idea of drinking cold refreshing beer at The Eagle and Child while reading my poetry.My mind wanders far into another reality before it’s jarred back by the arriving of our train.
Franz Kafka book and poetry book from the 30d’s.