I couldn’t physically keep the poles arched while also poking them into the ground.
He wanted to drink beer; I fancied hitchhiking to heaven with a blood sausage, so we headed to Brauerei Schumacher.
Given I often sleep in random people’s homes, I was slightly taken-aback yet honoured that my presence had such intrinsic value for the host.
What if I never find another boot that inspires me to write nigh on 1000 words in one sitting? Is that even healthy? How much pain is too much pain?
And it is why I found myself in a club at 3 am with 15 German guys, none of whose name I knew, existentialist philosophy book in hand, talking about Hitler’s birthday.
“What it sounds like,” he started, “is that Starbucks is your current home.”