It’s the darkest hour, but I mistake it for morning. The air is alive, buzzing, laden with sweat and

bodily grime and the fervour of fucking. No time for sleep. Contorted limbs and bouncing torsos

crowd the room filled otherwise by the unseen, the electrifying mystery of what lay beyond

closed doors.

That raunch. Oh, that delightful, Berlin raunch.

I welcome the hot, slovenly embrace, bobbing my head to a techno beat that feels both firmly

rooted in my ear drum and inconceivably distant – a memory forgotten.

Tug on the string, keep it close. Spin the thread into something you’ll remember, the moment

that once was.

I warp and distort into shapes that last for only a quick flash until they are once again birthed

into something new. I grow legs with little fires everywhere. My hair is frizzy and dotted with

second-hand perspiration, dew on dawn’s grass. Eyes gleam with wonder, with curiosity, with

emergency flares and party streamers.

You catch sight of these flares, of these streamers. Of these fresh legs that feel suddenly

compelled to walk straight towards you. I glance at you, and you’re already staring at me.

I’m enveloped in the fire, and you’re in front of me. I’ve never felt this way before, where my

body feels like it’s existing in the moment for which it was solely created. Quick – pull me in

before you forget me.

You kiss me, and each time I am reminded of all the air I have yet to breathe but do not have

time for.

It’s the darkest hour, but I mistake it for morning. Hold my hand, sway with me. Cover my body

in delicious dirt and hold my head below water. Whisper your name – spark, light, boom.

Yes, I do think I’m awake now.