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. . . on our neverending way through unsafe fields, as usual not clad appropriate and with only makeshift weapons at hand but at least upright, me and myself came along these pale ruins that on a closer view seem to be so familiar.So Los Caminantes, as we are called, take a rest inbetween all these memories. We have passed so many broken things. Everything is fading away or falling apart just like this place. The once so famous boulevard is hardly visible by now, covered with high grass, bushes and even trees that come out of the manyfold cracks.With the breeze there comes a hint of Patricia’s so very beautiful coarse voice, laughing. A constant whisper filling the air slowly repeats the melodious and wise texts of Karen again and again while somewhere in the distance the fata morgana of Maria appears, lifting her index finger, telling us what to do first, second, third . . . and look here, at the wall, I don’t believe it, there’s still hanging a rest of a poster showing the amazing face of Rabbi Hillel . . .. . . But then I woke up and, there he is, life! Hillel with a painting of his studio.
oh oh, it's a hoarse voice, not a coarse one, sorry, sorry, sorry . . .
This has some african tribal touch ....
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