Adalbertstraße, 54-65.

I look for you in the clouds of smoke clogging my mind, but you're behind them.

In a city unfit for the hypersensitive, I lose my sight in the colors, I lose my hearing in the noise, and I lose you in the crowd and maybe I find you again. I hope I never have to find myself again.

Submerged by the Metropolis, in equilibrium; in the belly of the wave yet still quite in place, comes and goes the light. And between its flickers, you see us: the beautiful minds shining so bright for a moment or so until they burn out, on a second-floor balcony and nothing can stop us now—maybe later. No one can hurt us now—maybe never. Talks about emptiness and how fulfilling it is to be human. Talks about Heaven and how to escape Hell with minimal effort. Our hopes explode and we scatter then huddle under the rubble; like a First World War and rebuild, a Second World War and rebuild, a fall of a wall and the disintegration of all things red. And if Bowie thought we could be heroes, who are we to disagree?

So we stain the streets with our presence, like the outlanders we are. We leave our trace on every other building and I hope to God it resembles your smile. You give up pieces of yourself in us: from bare heads to pierced faces, from tatted arms to tattered steps and loud laughs and dreams that repeat like broken records, going on record to prove they should linger and they should prevail. From here to infinity, there will be a you in all of us.

Yet to describe you is to push faith unto the heathen. I would tire my tongue and leave the most bittersweet of tastes in my mouth trying to dress you in the perfect words yet I would remain a criminal without an ounce of justice in my system. I would work my brain around anything else but you, but you are omnipresent in my being; my heart and my soul.

But at your core, you are just a city welcoming all; picture, motion, sound. And as such, we will always reside; leaving residue of our geists in the stomach of the beast. In the middle of Berlin.

The wooden floor under my bed tremors. My pillow vibrates. I lie still in my place, try to sleep. Please don’t give me dreams. It might as well be the end of the world but I’m not getting up any time soon. I’m probably making it up. If it’s all for real, do you feel it too? It all leads back to you.

I haven’t left my bed in a week and an earthquake is not going to change that. Mother Nature gave no shit about my pain so why should I care about hers? Think of it as a migraine and you’re on a stop light. 30 seconds or you die. You don’t let it make you cry. You don’t even have a cry face; you just tear up, shut an eye and move on with your day. It all leads back to you. But I. Am. Not. Moving.

The neighbors start screaming. Why must they screech their throats in search for a prayer? I haven’t spoken a word all day. The sound of bare feet hitting the concrete, they’re running away for good. The streets are going to swallow them whole. I can’t take the roars of panic searing outside my door. Good thing I can block the noise. Where are you?

I turn to my other side. I see nothing but the fading white of a wall. It keeps me company. There’s a sense of comfort knowing only one of us will survive this break of routine. I almost laugh and it almost returns me the favor.

I think the electricity died first, no TV sound in the background. And then the waterlines. Are you thirsty? I can smell the dusk but it should be noon by now.

I love this; the most action I’ve had in twenty years and it’s destructive. Nature is a queen in her rage and she’s claiming back her land, pronouncing us nomads—again. And this time too we have no say in it. Are you wearing shoes? The world is in flames but this is my own tiny heaven. It even has the iridescence of the faithful and the damned. Are you still here?

I pull my head under the sheets; maybe this makeshift veil will keep you from slithering stealthily into my minute place of bliss. I want to enjoy the moment. The walls are closing in, literally. I am eaten. My body is a mess. My skull crushed. I don’t even get to finish my last thou…

Pitch black, over the clouds, smoke and life.

Are you still alive?