Some men in Copenhagen look like they’ve been carved out of the finest
marble, homoeroticism dripping from the fingertips of their creator onto their plump lower
lip, the sharp cut of their cheek and jaw like the desperate plea Luther cast into the
thunderstorm, man’s delirious attempt to bargain with God and death.
Others look like they’ve barely parted their mouths from their Mothers tit, a gaping confusion and coddled incompetence hanging about their faces, stood next to women who wear their duty to God and country on the crisp sleeve of their white blouses, daughters and girlfriends,
Mothers and wives.
The city itself is immaculate and almost desolate, refined and restrained.
On the streets, people stare.
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