Several lumps lurking in the futon dig into my aching back. Dust bunnies waft across the bare painted wooden floor as a cat in search of warmth is trying to get under my covers. A poster that is difficult to make out in the dusk is peeling off the wall next to the gaping cupboard door. Clothes are spilling out.
Oak trees - nothing but oak: this is the park established by a German nationalist a hundred years ago, as a "genuinely German" forest. Sheep graze the mottled grass between the mammoth trees.
Several sheep trails wind around the trees, up and down the slopes. Walkers further compact the soil, though some deep groves in which one could break one's foot are found in the dried mud.
The miasma rising from the stinking cloaca would have been considered dangerous in past times. Now, the canalisation of the formerly comfortable stream is hailed as progress, although the only creatures left in the murky slime are floating on the surface. Up-river nuclear power stations ensure that the slime is always warm.
A battered polyester cup with dried remains is littering the bank.
It is simple metal key resembling the one used to cause a long-lost mechanical clown to jump, with a hollow hexagonal base and a scare top.