It’s somehow fitting.
The sweeping square is shrouded in silence, but for the dime-size drops of rain slapping the neatly laid cobbled stones under my feet. The typically bustling quad is empty too, except for the line of bicycles strung along the façade of the Alte Bibliothek (Old Library) and three tourists hunched under wide-domed umbrellas staring at the ground.
I’m watching the young men from the west side of the Berlin Opera House, waiting for them to move on so that I might have a second of solitude on my own to pay my respects to a moment in history that must never be forgotten so that it might never happen again. Continue reading
Certain words in the English language make me cringe. The short, staccato sound of them wrinkles my nose, puckers my lips, and stabs my ears. One of the two most wince-worthy in my book of offending words has recently sent me on a quest to finding an acceptable replacement even though the short burst that thrusts forth from pressed lips when expressing it ‘speaks’ for its meaning.
