Immer, wenn ich durch den Osten fahre, kommen so Erinnerungen hoch. Mag sein, weil der Osten so klein ist, dass man ohnehin alles irgendwann schon mal gesehen haben muss. Mag sein, weil der Osten das war, was für mich als Kind die Welt bedeutete. Mag sein. Wer weiß das schon? Ich weiß es nicht. Ich weiß nur, dass mir das alles, was man dort zu sehen bekommt, irgendwie bekannt erscheint. Ganz egal, wo man hinfährt. Nur eben in bunt, wenn man so will.
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