I bought a new coat. It has a strange shape to it, much like a cape, oversized and black. Add hat and cigar and I will look like I spend every night at the neighborhood bar, sustaining myself on nothing but absinth and red wine, writing poetry that gives readers nightmares. By skill or lack thereof, who could tell. Maybe I'll recite it out loud in my corner, raspy voice, pausing only to blow out smoke.
Typical Berlin, people would say.
Too bad I don't smoke and am more likely to order a pumpkin spiced latte over absinth.
When dusk comes I walk from Schöneberg to Bergmannkiez. Navigate to an alley, walk up three floors, sit in an office filled with books and half-broken chairs with twelve strangers. We talk about the first two pages of In Cold Blood. A brilliant book when I read it five years ago, but going through Truman Capote's prose in detail together takes it one step further.
I take notes with my scribbly handwriting. Resonant details. I will remember that, even if I can't read it afterwards.
We leave the building chatting.
Where do you live, finding a place is impossible, what are you writing, science fiction but the pieces are hard to fit together, see you next time.
It's dark, I walk home. Feeling lighter.
Sanna says Newsletter
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