The accordion man was in the Norreport stairwell again. I like the sound of an accordion as much as the next person. But, so far as I've listened, he doesn't play anything recognizable as a song or a melody. Just putters around the keys in front of the rush of morning commuters with that crazy grin on his face. I wonder if he might be drunk?
Crossing Norregade I was nearly run down by several well-dressed blonde women on bicycles. It was partially my fault--I should've been paying more attention. But really, what can one say about a city where the bicyclists are more aggressive than the cars or buses?
There is a pile of severed mannequin arms in the square. The front door at DIS smells like piss. Oh, Copenhagen. How I've missed you during my convalescence.