The night had grown cold around me on Stralauerstr and it became an effort to keep the muttered Dinglish in my head as the bulk of the Markisches Museam eventually loomed from the other side of the Spree.
I took photographs. Found myself lost beneath a bridge, caught between fences and negotiating stacks of curb stones and bags of sand. I took more photographs and gazed with no small longing at a faded 80’s hotel bar, now shut for the night.
At Melancholie II at 4am a man sat on the floor in animated conversation with his dog. An argument ensued and I drank a coffee and smoked a cigarette. Neimand’s Land.
Outside the darkwave night, back in Prenzlauerberg, a young queen in Marie Antoinette drag had giggled and waived her fan at a crowd of teenage vampires.
Earlier Flint told me that he rarely had nightmares except one in which he woke up and found this city was all a dream.