#berlin 1989

Nantes 2017.

Arnem X Moner.

“Ich frage mich, was wird hier passieren?”

She couldn’t say she was particularly surprised, hearing his voice. The night had come alive with drunken revelry and tears, old men with sledgehammers and pickaxes and punks with bright green hair and crowbars taking turns chipping at the concrete and passing around rolled cigarettes. A radio somewhere played “Auferstanden aus Ruinen” through the static and car horns and the jubilant shouting the came from the streets. Students waved spray-painted bed sheets and flags as they pushed through the station at Friedrichstraße. 

“Nichts neues. Nichts anders. Mann macht immer nur was er willt.”

“Gibt es keine Hoffnung deswegen?”

She turned, taking in his ripped leather jacket with its anarchy patch, the bound and gagged skeleton on his t-shirt, his hair in its styled disarray. It had been years since she’d seen him. Both much too long and mere moments.

“Normalerweise, bist du midestens halbwegs herzeigbar.”

He laughed, the sound lost to the wind and the celebration that roared through the border at Friedrichshain.

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