Berlin

V There is nothing of sweet perfume in your skies though the herbal tobacco rain rotten wood fungi and dead cold stone sways me; there is none of the romance we so eagerly scribe to your streets, but a man with a harmonica. I walked with him; I played Beethoven, then he played Armstrong - how ironical! since (earlier that evening) we sat on concrete blocks that would keep silent for (or obliterate, depending on your stance) a trampled nation.