It is the same, the meandering cement and self-important chores of the lonely housewife. Strong coffee, the savior of us all will soon be poured followed by the grapes of wrath. There is death by gluttony and life one minute at a time.

The same window stares out and books replaced with bargains made with the devil. The same sky drapes across the pond replaced with the comfort of cake and the sound of children.

The silence of strangers strolling past on idyllic streets, strewn with flowers, each petal placed on succulent leaves by aging hands. The horses snorting and self-absorbed sit and a feigned smile forced upon the longing look of a lost friend dips down to feed the craving beast.

All is sold here, for the idea of strength, but perhaps with the knowledge of the lie, we wake and hope that in far off places there is still the untamed. The ground still fertile makes its way through the cracks in the places never seen. A lonely bell tolls for the god there never was, in pretty little steeples. There is no knowledge in these places, ling since forgotten, but kept in mind.

The trees fill with voices, almost gossiping and the forest is a town with no bricks. Taking in the sunlight and breathing out the sense that once made children of us all. And on that slippery slop we fall, giving up our childhood to praise the empty faces. This is, at the end, what Copenhagen is: a church with many gods with their followers in tow.