Filament in purple glass on the ceiling warms in strength. Minor key heartbeat of the nocturne pulses through the small, furnished shed. This dim prelude is to frame fragments of memory.
• Trudging through snow to Blumenfeld to return the borrowed folio.
• A trek across the Bäckerinhügel, past sledgers to retreat under quilt, shaking off the cold from the hardwood floor.
• Slouching through the Vieux Carré to sidle up to the Taverne Vide, a mope and a beer with Brenda Lee warbling on the jukebox.
• Leaving the Lodgemaster to rendezvous with the inamorata falsely in durance vile; now freed, mitigating the ordeal with hearty tongue and brew.
• Limbs entwine at Bad Greiferfuß, warm water rippling under that same purple murk.
The nocturne winds to a halt and the light is doused, revealing a phosphorescent ceiling of stars.
Carpe noctem, ad astra per lux
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