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yellow line

she stands in front of me and sees a medium sized reflection on a window pane, a network of industrial complexes, regulatory regimes in a neat handy frame.

her gaze descents. the structures may now appear more flat than phallic. small pieces of debris swerve over crumbling concrete plates (and an ant's trail is interrupted by a shoe size8.

human values are pushes aside for one moment. in a vision of universal symmetry the city becomes the most elaborate machine ever built. one step over the copple stones shifts fragments of a yellow line vanishing to the left

i follow a couple of visiting french tourists. the line crawls along a white wall crowned by pieces of glass stuck into the cement before hardening - now lurking for soft skin with patience, accompanied by a drain leading down to a network of subterranean collages of disposal systems

the traffic lights first turn amber, then red. she's in the middle of the road (an emulsion loosing its blackness in favour of grey) speeding up her pace. engines start revving and there's a smell of warm oil and rubber followed by blue petrol fumes. another line drawn on the road accompanies her trail, several times interrupted by parking vehicles. their head lights a covered with smashed insects, red and yellow smears, cold and hard as stone.

she moves around pillars and silts out into the crowd, not aware of a door opening after she's passed, not of the old woman with a stick leaving in the opposite direction.

a vision of a mirrored world, the least thing you're talking about..

yellow line

people dart from the left to the right on individual missions. a can taste coffee in the air and a variety a facial expressions dart from the right to the left.
she appears and doesn't recognise me because she doesn't know me. all the tables are covered by remnants of breakfasts on plates and bored half-empty cups (vienna style)scanning the scene she decides to answer some questions asked by a couple of french tourists.

a man throws glances into a low bust then slides back into foreign news of missiles reaching targets. while the machine produces some seriously black
coffee a lump of fluff is being dragged over the floor, retracted by greasy stains, finally sucked out of the door by a draft. she has already left.

houses grow on her left and metal flakes move and crawl to her right, stop, and go, slow, rather stop, and over the crossing and down the stairs from where a smell (a trace of stale underground atmosphere) emerges. she follows the arrows, notes hanging in the air touching advertising rectangles.
she thinks not me slides through a gate. i can still smell coffee on my tongue when i see a man with no arms but a small collection of small coins collected in a plastic cup. there must be an arrow to lead me to somewhere else and an irrational landscape floats through my mind and alters the terrain. i walk on its flat surface, too often ignored, but i don't care.

i stand in front of a shop window and see myself as a medium sized reflection, a car shifts into lower gear, the trembling window blurs the image.
a curtain falls and blinds the screen. i think to myself: lot's to see. a yellow line appears in the corner of my eyes and i follow.