The music stopped and I didn’t notice. I was too deep in thought or actually it was the opposite. I was not thinking at all, my brain felt like it had been pulled apart into one thousand different particles of matter and they were trying to put themselves back together.
I had been listening to a mix of classical modernist piano conciertos, Apparat, Broadcast, Otis Redding and a mixed bag of completely unclassifiable tunes that seemed neither here nor there.
Typing, typing, typing and never looking up or stopping and I actually had no idea what I had just written and in a way that was kinda scary so I paused and took a break. Walking outside the breeze hit me hard and the spring that had been in Berlin just the week before felt like such a tease, but I did not mind the cold and my wool stalkings kept me warm. Through the gate openings in the courtyard out back I looked into the solemn, almost silent graveyard. That graveyard is so old. Matas told me it was the oldest in Berlin. I have seen that graveyard in every season now, but my favorite season to look out into it was the fall because the trees still had leaves and they were orange and yellow and light green and the act of the ritual shedding of leaves seemed fitting in the setting.
I was getting cold so I lazily walked back inside and felt the warmth flush my cheeks red when I opened the door. Body heat, lingering coffee smells, beats blasting from headphones, fingers typing, everyone silent staring at little computers on little desks. Focus. So much focus. So much energy in silent movements. So much activity. Sparks.
I listened to Jean-Yves Thibaudet play Satie and typed away again. The light outside was fading and the clouds stretched across the sky and the evening was grey like the whole day had been. I dove into the words and swam around in them and there I stayed for a while until the night called me home.