Berlin is filled with evenings spent gliding on slick icy sidewalks, post-dusk, when the sun has faded away. The city glows and shimmers while vampiric bodies move weightlessly floating on unsteady ground.

Natural light must cease for projected light to exist and projections are present throughout the city in gallery windows and on bar walls. With the coming dawn all projected light fades away.

Skin, a sponge of its chosen dwelling, absorbs libations of the night becoming backlit red. Even fuzzy warm, more often then not I could feel the cold try to slip inside the zipper of my coat as I attempted the impossible: to resist.

Near Rosenthaler Platz in Mitte, at all hours and levels of consciousness: I inhaled [with] an American Spirit and exhaled sparks and fire.

(written from 36,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean)

More soon!
— Posted from my iPhone