A river runs through you, Berlin. Everything moves. 

There goes the present, eagerly flowing past the past, as much ahead as presently possible, away and away from the impossible: the Clashing Rocks, the angry Poseidon, the Cyclops’ terrible tiny one-eyed moustache. 

It's no coincidence they stamp a warning on the visa card: 

...unless you bring it along inside your soul, you won't encounter a wall.

It’s no coincidence that taxis display the time on the rear view mirror. I can see it clearly Berlin: it’s time to emancipate and heal your wounded hand.  

It’s time for you to dance. 

Everything moves. As Night falls on your buildings, they stretch to rest their arms on their neighbours’ shoulders — a whole city in one desperate embrace.
At first you move slowly, but later, when the DJ starts pumping massive Laestrygonian beats in everyone’s ecstatic hearts, you raise your hands up, Berlin, and fully surrender to pleasure — all the things you ever wanted, you ever needed, here in your arms: mother of pearl coral, amber and ebony, sensual perfumes of any kind, and drugs drugs drugs.  

When Dawn finally airs her rosy fingers, you take that empty bottle of fizzy nighttime in your hands, dally back to your bed sheets, and somehow manage to tuck yourself under the glorious patches and motifs of your life’s quilt.