I was asked once, where and how I live.

With beer, prostitutes, hope, red butterflies and by selling drugs which don’t hurt, I’ld have answered.
Fact is, that my flat hasn’t a straight line. It’s bevel. Well, I had to support my table and my few cupboards I have by putting cardboard under it. You can’t fix anything on the walls, because they are cupped. Where once has been the kitchen is now my bedroom. You can smell it. Not kitchen like… you know. But it’s a smell which doesn’t disappear, doesn’t matter how long you leave the window open or anything.

The family above me loves to throw their furniture around, try to play piano (not very successful), have a little daughter which screams the hole night. Her bedroom is above mine. It may be that it’s a hungry or a very, very sad child. The mother, I meet then and when on the staircase, is pierced all over, has five (or six) different haircolours of which is one blond and another one pink.  She has a lot of tattoos you can admire on her breasts. v-neck…

So far. The neighbour I can see when i look out of my window is an fat, mid- sixties, gray hair, beer drinking italiano who obviously is extremly obese, smells like a rubbish can, has two cats and a slim girlfriend. She just seems to come around to either fight with him, or to having diner. Which is fish out of a can. He, Pino, is a pretty nice guy anyway, always wears a white Shirt, never pants, is most of the time just sitting around in jumpers, nothing else, even if its minus twenty degrees below fucking nill.

I once met him outside his flat when I was coming home around seven in the morning. Pino get rid of his snot by simply puffing it out of his nostrils right on the street. I thought, pretty weird time to go shopping. He held a white plastic-bag in his left, filled with toast and wine and stuff.

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