Tuesday, September 15.

In a coffee shop waiting for the bike shop to re-open. I’m getting hangry, maybe, or, I’m in need of some movement. Having a hard time sitting still. Feeling like I want to blow over. Like I’m about to burst out of here. A confusing time it has been. Getting impatient, waiting on nothing. Maybe I need to be on my lonesome. Maybe I’m upset about the lack of productivity of nothingness. Or, getting nervous for the reality of returning back to New York. Feels like I’m standing on a single pebble, here. Not sure how to lift my leg. You know, basic shit like that, and worst yet, like I’m unsure of myself constantly, here. The only thing which saves me is Practice and Habit. I will list them here:

Pull the blinds open, look through the grate of these metallic blinds and further through the dappled holes of the scaffolding platforms to see what little light a late morning has to offer. Turn on the kettle, crack three eggs open, put it fried, on eight euro bread. Walk the streets, but only in the afternoon, look for the number fifty three on the buildings never to find it, anywhere, on any corner.

And what’s to make a home here? Check for clean underwear, check if the clothes are dry, check if the washer’s full. Get overwhelmed. It all ends, eventually. But it’s a ritual nonetheless. I’m tired all the time. I’ll see sun through a thinned veil of light. I’ll say I love you out loud to myself because I have nothing else to say and nothing more to determine. I dream of Jesus Christ with a gash in his gut and South Park eyes and wake up shaking in the middle of the night. Run a few circles around Tempelhofer and glance at a half-octogonal bench that no one knows means a lot to me. Look for a tripod for my camera, look for the signs, look for a future here if there is space for one more fucking filmmaker here.

The trees here are all labeled like they’re homes on the street. There’s a Turkish lady sat in criss-cross on the platform entrance who sings whilst asking for money. It’s hard to see the sun. I look for it everywhere. I jitter in the future and I trip looking backwards. I wonder if the tile on the sidewalk used to be whiter. I have a voice but I don’t use it here, in a pilgrimage of my own. I press my fingers on the bumps on my face, I’ll practice agency and cut my hair real short. I want a tattoo and I want the patterns that mean something and leads to some place and I look for holes in the park meadows and wonder what animal could have dug this one.

I wonder why cigarettes don’t appeal to me but scrolling on a phone does and I question everything with dilated pupils. It builds up over time like I’m learning a language of indirectness, in-betweenness, wading in a kiddy pool which also rises neck deep somehow. I dance in an empty room that becomes dusty from my own dry skin, and I’ll keep the windows closed to my mother’s request, her nose is sensitive to the yellowing, molding, dusting leaves. She’s six hours away with the rest of my family and I forget to say good morning until it’s late in the afternoon.

I’m looking for something I can’t see yet, I’m just holding some bones and cartilage to a life I think I wish I feel like I want to I hope so I wish for. I practice my hiragana, my katakana, and I’ll return to this continuation in five days time. Again.