Berlin
Colored lights above a stranger, piezo crystals, pickup dark; circuits quiet in a soundboard pull electrons into arcs. I’ll always see the line of the cityscape lit up bright against dark sky; streets that glaze with water reflecting streetlights red and green, transiting machines, incomplete routines— rain that washes the city clean. Glutamate above a synapse, long-term potentials make their mark; ionic flux becomes a memory, inscribing history into sparks. I’ll always see the line of the cityscape lit up only in my mind; nights that glaze with memory reflecting self as slot machine bridged with dopamine, hazes of caffeine— Come back to the mean: Chemicals burn hot and clean. Are you sure the lights were green? Are you sure that the lights were green? Running down the aisles to click tracks, Overdrive, clean-boost your part, lay it down as neural pathways: someone’s childhood pries apart. I can’t see the line of the cityscape, dimming lights against dark sky; nights that fade with memory reflecting self as slot machine bridged with dopamine, hazes of caffeine— I don’t know what you mean. And were the stage lights green? We watched behind the scenes. Memories don’t burn clean.