The street is our enemy. It really is as it appears to us, sheer and uphill. We only don’t notice it when we stride along it. In winter, through – so the newspapers tell us – the porters and shop attendants, the ones who chase us out of buildings and courtyards, and throw hard words after us, forget to strew ashes or sand on the ice, and we fall, robbed of our mobility by the cold.
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