I'm in russia. perhaps Vladivostok. the sun rises. deliberately. It is 9 clock in the morning in Germany. a quieter train hisses me eisblumen the pale face.
almost a bit romantic. runny mascara has always something audacious. in my old.
said. I wanted to be an example - but never old.
chandler what would say?
"I nodded and looked over my glass across her snub nose and tanned skin."
chandler apropos;.)
"There are those blondes and such, which is now almost a winged joke all blondes have their tunes, except perhaps only the bleach-blonde, which are beyond the chemical as blond as a Zulu and the mind as smooth as a sidewalk. There is the cute little blonde girl, the beeps and chirps, and the big statuesque blonde who only needs one of her ice-blue eyes, to keep a distance. There's the blonde who looks up to a gorgeous and smells just as gorgeous and shimmers and hangs on the arm and always so very, very tired when she brings home. It makes permanent this helpless feeling and has constantly these goddamned headache and you would slap her favorite one, if not glad, that would be to have discovered the headache in time before you have invested too much time, money and hope in it . Because these headaches will always be there, a weapon that is never dull, and as deadly as the rapier of an assassin or Lukrezias poison vial.
There is the gentle and willing Blonde with a penchant for alcohol, which does not matter what she wears, as long as it is only mink, or where to go with it as long as only the "Starlight Roof" and the dry champagne flows freely. There is the perky little blonde who is a bit pale and will pay for itself and fully inserted sunshine and wit and learned judo and a truck driver with a shoulder sweep over her shoulders, without missing more than one sentence from the editorial in the Saturday Review. There is the pale, very pale blonde who suffers from a non-fatal but incurable form of anemia. She is very weak, almost a mere shadow of itself, speaks very softly as if from the Nothing, and you can not even touch the little finger, because the first does not want to and secondly, because they just "The Waste Land" is reading or studying Dante in the original, or Kafka or Kierkegaard or Provencal. She loves music, and when the New York Philharmonic play Hindemith, she can tell one which of the six double basses came with his mission quarter too late. I hear Toscanini can also. Thus there are already two.
Finally, there are from the super blonde, this beauty for show, the [...]
[: The long goodbye. Raymond Chandler.]
caramel blue
that's it
emmi
spoetterdaemmerung - Or the genius master chaos 
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