IN BUCHAREST

In Bucharest the people are so gay that every walk is a dance, and every dance is a spasm of ecstasy. Every mouthful of food elicits fists slammed on tables and tears of joy. Each sunset brings the city into a communal hum of the purest bliss, the populace take on a purple and orange hue in their very carbon. When the sun has gone down they all look at each other with that intimate post-coital knowing shyness.

WOLVES TANGO AROUND THE CAMPFIRE

Wolves tango around the campfire. Seventeen wolves, each in perfect step, claws scraping concentric cirles in the dirt and ash, staring into each others eyes, feeling the heat and the moon and the magic inbetween, the beating of their partners heart the only rhythm they need follow. Is one wolf dancing alone, or are three dancing together? 

BRATTY BRATWURSTS

Bratty bratwursts refused to get in their buns. They flipped the cook the bird, blew him a raspberry, and rolled off down the street. They stopped at a street corner and put on shades and lit cigarettes and started harmonising in the most gorgeous tender voices you ever heard. I watched from my apartment window and thought about the young dreams I had munched each Oktoberfest.