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.
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