FRANZ ROSEN

City

(from his diaries)

What a city we were. What an agglomeration. We were like a hothouse, that had grown under the Cold War’s searchlights exotic flowers of every inappropriate variety. We were like a party that never stopped because when the dancing ended we knew we would die. We dined on wreckage. We were not afraid to beg. We continued our long tradition of believing either in nothing or too much.