Keywords

In Café Borges on Bankastræti everyone has brown eyes. Here they once sold pantyhose– says Simone–that forked like paths in two, even three. Yes–says Tiziano–lovers fought here until someone laid a sword between them, naked. Fires are burning. In Café Borges on Bankastræti everyone has stubble and a smile. You have the widows and the widowers who slurp soup spiced with Fáfnir’s-grass and add in adages with...