Art & Poetry
Was mache ich eigentlich hier?
Meine Hände sind dreckig, mein Herz ist schwer
Man darf nie an die ganze Straße auf einmal denken, verstehst Du? Man muss nur an den nächsten Schritt denken, den nächsten Atemzug, den nächsten Besenstrich. Und immer wieder nur den nächsten
Michael Ende, Momo
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