In der Pasticceria Migliorini in Volterra sah ich einen Jungen, oder einen halben Jungen, denn mir blieben nur seine weisse, mit einem Schriftzug bedruckte Trainingshose und riesige weisse Basketballschuhe. Trug er eine wattierte schwarze Jacke? Nein, jetzt erinnere ich mich, eine schwarze felpa, die Kapuze über den Kopf gezogen, so dass nur ein Büschel borstiger Haare über seiner Stirne vorstand. Waren seine Haare schwarz oder grau oder grün oder gestreift, wie ein junges Wildschwein (in der Toskana leben mehr Wildschweine als Menschen).

Ist es "Tod in Venedig: Jetzt packt Tazio aus!"? Endlich kommt Tazio zu Wort!

Among Swiss poets (artists who write poems) Maria Lauber is the one whom I admire most. She wrote in a language she herself called Frutigtütsch which is so different from most of Swiss German that it could be considered another language. Different grammar, different vocabulary... like Catalan to Castilian, or Spanish to Portuguese.

CALLING

the heaviness of the sighs on the endless nights
i'm in pain from missing you
i can no longer see anything
don't let me go, don't leave me
only you i believe in
ah, to warm my lips

CALLING IN THE NIGHT

my emotions make my heart pound

NIGHT AFTER NIGHT

1

Le paysage devint accidenté, abrupt, le train s'arrêta à une petite gare entre deux montagnes.[1]

Then the river disappeared, the countryside became hilly and steep, and the train stopped at a little station between two mountains.[2]

THE WAY OF THE FARANG VS. THE THAI WAY

Are you desperately looking for a boy?

An ass as beautiful but more sexy than Leonardo's Mona Lisa, dark faithful eyes and the whitest of Colgate smiles, plus lips so sensual that you'd rather begin missing meals than stop kissing them? Age barely legal, smooth brown skin, a waist you can girdle with your two hands, and a little brother so big the boy needs a cricket bag to bring him along? Honest, hard working, clean, intelligent, polite, and fun? A modest shopper in Central Store but a beast in bed, sucking like a Dairy Master and coming like a plastic milk bottle run over by a lorry?

To be a young woman is difficult, particularly if you are in love with Akira who is in love with your girl-friend Yuki and having sex with Dai, the shy boy in your High-School class. But then Dai drowns and Akira tells you, "Yuki broke up with me."

Will Dai's ghost come back to drag us all into hell... or paradise?