What Nights in Berlin Taught Me
A personal-analytical journey, narrated to smashing four-to-the-floor drum beats at 130 bpm.
I turn left and lean against the thin metal wall next to me, the cool stainless steel nestling against my overheated skull. I’m dizzy, sweat running down my forehead. “So, what are we doing?” the familiar, rough female voice has this authoritarian and determined sound to it. A flash of light illuminates my vision—the dusty yellow light bulb’s reflection on the shiny, sterile surface of a mobile phone. Snow gently trickles; seven sweaty, half-naked bodies in a confined space, in need of a clear mind—or wings to fly again. The bass wafts underneath our feet, the sound of a toilet flushing next door.
What am I doing?
Looking at it superficially, I lost control over my life—yet, from a deep analytical point of view, I’m doing everything just right.
