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  • AutorenbildLars Henriks

Fruitless hunt

I am riding the train home from Leipzig, after an exhausting commentator gig last night, having spent the morning searching the great city of independent art, interesting theater, cinemas that regularly show my movies and lots of other things I love, for those shelves for the free exchange of books that I love so much and seek out everywhere.

All of the Leipzig ones seem to be indoors, so I couldn‘t get to them (Germany being on eternal half-lockdown and all).

Frustrating morning, I tell you, walking through the cold for hours, past dead raccoons (seriously, the thing was HUGE, lying under the fence of a large villa - Its entire upper half having been ripped off! It was a bloody mess of guts and gore! What killed that poor animal!? Must have been even bigger and fucking VICIOUS!), finding nothing at all.

Now, I‘m on the train and quite tired, hence no epic list for the ages like yesterday.


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