Everyone lives in apartments. The city is small, space is scarce. No one has a garden. Instead they hang little pot plants from their balconies and out of their windows. The restricted space forces creativity. Parties in bunkers and churches. No garden to lay in, pushes people out of their four walls. When the sun shines it isn't thought peculiar to lie in the old cemetery, among the graves. I sun baked and studied next to a Marie Christensen just the other day. We had a great chat. She died in 1875 and was buried with her sister. I wondered if she was insulted by my premiscuous sunbathing, but soon forgot about it. A "mother's group" had a picnic nearby, and small toddlers waddled around the grave stones.
A city so small and confined. Restricted and conservative. Stern and serious. Yet now that Winter is somewhat happily forgotten, an energy has returned. Eyes open, nuerons moving and people laugh in the streets. We are like plants, when the sun is removed we wilt. Bring it on: bring on Summer. Let's sing and throw our arms to the sky. Run as fast as you can and meet me at the ice cream shop. Coconut. Pistachio. Vanilla. Let's sip rose swinging our legs dangling above the canal below. Let's spin and spin and spin until we're dizzy and the lights go blurry. Show me how you dance, wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen. <3