Strasbourg, a Wednesday afternoon in the beginning of Mars. Café Brant, a place I've been before. I sit by the window and if I turn my head I can see the Palais Universitaire. Across the square is Gallia, the student residence, and in front of me passes bus no. 6, a bus I've taken so many times before. A year has passed since I last was here, over two since N and I discussed his French love affairs and nearly two-and-a-half since I moved from the steps of the mentioned Palais and over here to finish my melancholic and longing letters to E while drowning my sorrows in coffee and Alsacian wine.
Half-an-hour ago the heat of the sun through the window forced me to lean back into the shadows. Now the road bricks are steadily turning dark and slippery from the rain, pouring down in uncontrollable waves. I look out and it rains. I turn my eyes down to the papers to write and when I look up again the rain has momentarily ceased. I look down to scribble down my observations and when I look out to confirm then the rain has once again commenced. The changes occurs faster than I manage to note down.
It's spring in Strasbourg and I'm back.
Half-an-hour ago the heat of the sun through the window forced me to lean back into the shadows. Now the road bricks are steadily turning dark and slippery from the rain, pouring down in uncontrollable waves. I look out and it rains. I turn my eyes down to the papers to write and when I look up again the rain has momentarily ceased. I look down to scribble down my observations and when I look out to confirm then the rain has once again commenced. The changes occurs faster than I manage to note down.
It's spring in Strasbourg and I'm back.
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