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It has become night. And frost. And time.
All at the same time. If you stand there, do you walk around there and then look up there, then the sky is gray, like asphalt and strange. And in it a lonely star seems far away. Are you cold?
Mr. F. and Mr. N. were in the bunker and brought everything from there except for the empties. The sweat of summer, the clammy fingers of winter, the smell of kebab leftovers, smoke and toilets and ten tracks with the sound of the rehearsal rooms of the eighties.
Minimal postpunk noise. Stories.
Mönchengladbach, as an example for.
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