So there's already trouble in my paradise.

Morning is gray and crisp. The pollution is but a distant unpleasant thought, fading fast from my muscle memory and cells.

I will shall must look on the bright side. I must trust that there's a sun beyond those curtains of death gray. 


The birds are chirping cheerily. Longingly. (If I say lovingly am I guilty of anthropomorphizing?)
The GDR vision of space age; The Fernsehenturm is beaming dull aluminum through the 8 am haze.


I came with a suitcase, the laptop and a guitar. I am a walking, talking cliche. The young American girl taking on Europe. Who doesn't speak the language beyond: Entshuldigung, sprechen sie English, bitte? Far away from home, brave with the visa card from daddy safely tucked away in my fanny pack. Ein beer, bitte!

She is colder than I expected her to be. There's no tongue in our kisses. And they don't aim for the lips either. The embrace is tense and doesn't rub off. She has bags under her eyes. And tales of trouble.It's not you, it's me.

I never learn not to have any expectations. And now I try to look for the signs I missed while being blind-folded by my silly desired to be loved. And I am not even getting fucked.


So there's already trouble in my paradise.

P.S My blogger acts buggy. I hit return and nothing happens. I click the italics button and nothing happens. Advice? Help!