It’s on days like this that I feel, dangerously, ominously, like von Aschenbach in Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice.
Feels like the triumph of the petty functionaries of the state institutions over the beauty and exquisite sensation of the human spirit.
Where is the sensitivity.
I wait at the station; I stare wordlessly at the hard blue sky that is filled in my vision with
images of official buildings, a clock tower, the council buildings.
I am sure the train will be on time.
But I cannot wait for it, impelled by a sudden inner force to move, away from the station with its on-time train and lines of dismal passengers slumped on seats, away down the street,
to there and back again.
