So. Like. I’m riding my bike around a god-knows-where northern Germania vacation village. On the one side of me I’ve got the Baltic Sea and Denmark and on the other side hellacious church bells ringing as though there’s no tomorrow. So I turn the corner and approach the bells that are thundering and the first thing I notice is the parking lot of the church. It is filled with Mercedes Benz after Mercedes Benz. Accordingly, a whole bunch of really old white people are getting out of those cars and trekking their way up the cobble stones. Within the entrance of the church I can see–and perhaps feel–its interior filled with the soothing light of candles, their God and the shade of someone recently passed. I proceed to take a few tourist picture of the old church–that is surrounded by graves–that was initially built in seventeen something or other (you know how it is with old $hit here in #eurowasteland) and then, before all the Mercedes are empty, I skedattle my way outta there. Here’s two pics of what the experience left behind.
Rant on.
worstwriter 