from Belgrad to Bruxelles, and onward still …

From humble birth, Georg soon found fascination in the world and its many people of oh-so-many letters. His father told him stories of distant lands and great men, and the local libraries overflowed with quality reading. But the stories closest to young Georg’s heart were those of obscurity, especially those that told of the great Krim Jacob. From young of age Georg knew his destiny was to travel the world, to follow that great Krim, and perhaps, like Krim, find a land of eternal bliss.

From Belgrad to Bruxelles, and onward still. Even in fertile Mures his feet landed once or twice (or thrice, or even seven times). Yet he did not seem to find a land, a town, a field or forest without the ever-present un-logik. Was his Evropa already damned? Had the keys to the Krimean creation been stolen out of its ancient cradle?

Roma old, Rusia vast, România relevant! Georg saw them all!

Yet, did you ever go to that Congolese Africii?

Did you ever see that great jungle flood?

Did you experience that most immense Energie

form that most terrific branching factor? Did you, my old friend Georg?

And when did you grow those wings?

Georg believed he was traveling to the cursed city of El Fahir, that home to exiles and wayward Ladds, but his destination was Death. Only in spirit could he ever fly on to the dark stream of the Congo, and only in these words is his memory intact and true. Perhaps he soars still amongst clouds and mist, watching over Belgrad, Bruxelles and El Fahir, and all the Krimean creation …