Berlin:

An electro-magnetic field pulses. Laundry spins. Stops spinning. You bend your left leg slowly at the knee. Stretching your calf. A bird calls. A car passes. Accelerates. Brakes. A computer tries to scan the disc inside it. A book turns its pages. Reading.

Someone steps hard against a wooden floor. Ruffles a plastic bag. Clinks a fork against a plate. You move your right leg, rolling up, onto your side. More cars. A train too.

Groaning, empty-headed, at the morning, you scratch your balls.

'The ideal political candidate is both charismatic and authentic', you think.

The curtains pulled up, the windows bending light, the door opened, the morning says “get on with it”.


Nick, showered and dressed, lies back down in his bed, lazy. “Unni saw my penis this morning” he says, then sings a Dylan line for the two-thousandth time. I fart. “This sunshine feels awesome,” he replies, though I know it’s not a woman. (He lies and says “it feels better”)

He wonders aloud if he’s ever been alone in the world, farting. He wonders if he’s ever farted at the same time as Geena Davis.

Somewhere along the German country-side a cow, chewing, thinking cow thoughts, leaks methane.