B E R L I N 1 0 1

Voices in the distance of relatable presence. Somehow one is missed, too much. Too little time given. Have you been away for long? If this would be my realm, would stick my teeth in. Harder. Following the motion of a hand touch in again while imagining skin. Softly. Distantly reaching the surface. Are you there yet? Place to stay, polishes skin on silk covered coffin leads. I burn candles in relevance to fires one burns to eat the ashes of past realms. Smiling.

 

1919 | floor 4 | East Berlin | cracked paint and pausing watches. Ticking. Wonder where the stoking line would go in the apartment with windows inside out. Fitted sockets and locks on cabinets. Whitened walls. Have you. Tasted flesh that never burned. Wooden chairs in disorganised matter of proportion to the space given.

There was a rumble inside the dead space. Check in's and check out's. The time is now. Devil rings a door bell. Battery checks and candles leaving traces on the skin. In this business there are no ifs, or haves or have-nots. There is no call-ins and no joy rides. Happiness is a beast one desires but is never sure off. Like blood that runs out of you once a month, process is a certainty but joys are few. There is evil in the emotion of joy, the fear that it never repeats itself, comes back. Happens again. We fear the joy and happiness because we cling to it, like addiction. The purity of that feeling, that sacrifice of pessimism, the trust that one wishes for. Deep in desire while loosing control. Sounds and patterns of water killing fires burned by the shore.

Water inside planted circles I open-up for you. Saving Jesus from Devilish temptations of Lilith. Change the real of joy, gold dust inside the morning hours that given witches poisoned fruit to feed to the children. Turn up the turbulence inside the building that rocks from side to side levitating from the core. Seen what it does to men old and young inside the tip of possession. Words put into motion, what fear can do to the strong and wilful. 

Twist inside the veins I cared too much for while watching candles jump in reflection of fogged mirrors and heat damaged walls. In misty windows devils present the sacred dance. Clinging to heritage, strong blood lines. Non of women in this line gave up easily. When war is war not only on the flesh but onto chaos focus narrows. This is not a story my friend, this is war. As rings in the water that paints pictures of glory one could have had. Berlin 101 - are you still listening?

While light bulbs crackle and fuses blow, one inch from the ground we rise. It spins itself inside the ether of water and fog. I knew how one is called behind the veil. Answering questions with questions. Show me how it is called inside the line of your entity while I burn my fingertips off. Gentle skin, hardened surfaces. 

. G l o w .

Sharp objects swallow, soft flesh burns. It is all gathered inside the parallel. Pile up, colour-code, shuffle-up and burn. All of it. With no remorse? Have you made a binary assessments? Let me be the narrator. The levitating house with elevated furniture and picture frame peeling off while paint and carpets combust is just a begining. Let's walk together, crows seen the distance. Not scared of the night light, walked the streets alone inside the dream you forgotten. Too many gurus. Spinning from side to side. The night business is our business. Divine. The slums you fear is just a projection of joy not reached. Twist the battle. We are all legal here.

///now smile girl the day is young and fires are wast\\\

 sign in / sign out

Good night and god Bless,

Queen of Disorder

Sonia Dietrich