beyond the sea

Praha

It smelt like an adolescent boy. That sweaty, excited, tintilated scent. I made a few Czech friends and listened to jazz and wandered through some dusty book stores. I bought a Hans Christian Anderson book illustrated by Jiri Trnka. It may just be one of the best in my collection. We wandered the colourful streets and had beer in gardens. He had read Murakami, I introduced the gifted pianist to Gonzales, and the American one was really quite funny.

It was warm and lovely and I did not want to come back, to here or anywhere.

I fell alseep on the train while listening to the tracks