• 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