Das Ologarch, he lives above our bureau. Red evening sun. Burnt sky. The taste of Schwarzwald Schinken on my tongue. Wein as a mouthwash.

The face, rric face. Right nex to the dark green flowes. On a book. Black book. The cover conrained a hole. To another dimeion. Put on my iron shirt and chase the devil out of erth. IN and OUT. I iz not d sam.

U-club, the murrican outskirts. Hapy chiloldhood, goin to school. In the 90ties. No gunchecks at the entrance. Transported. Teleported into it. By an old dread. Whoze memories are these, they are not mine. Or are they. The happy face. Iz not hapi.

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