so there is this vivid memory of walking up the street back when I was a kid. Distinctly, I recall the crowds and the radiant window displays of the countless shops and, so impressed, I had no idea I was eventually going to live here. Though, of course, the street has changed and faded and gone all out of business, opening the possibility in the first place. So I reckon it’s the difference that I find so fascinating and what difference everything makes. Like when I first arrived, starring blankly at the bare, empty room of the second dorm building at the edge of town, soaked and tired. Getting the apartment was a milestone. Watching the walking dead and eating a kebab from the place near the cinema since everywhere else was closed when we finally moved in at two am. And I’d fancy writing all about how we designed door handles for our first assignment alas I generally suck at catching up - so I will abstain from it and call it a long shot at whatever consistency there is for me. And the memories do keep coming up along with the faces that tie themselves to the place, but I’ve tried my best to find it anew. Rediscover it for myself. And falling asleep in the backseat of my father’s ancient car is so unlike passing out on my family’s make-believe grave. And coming home isn’t same either. Apart from that, it’s hard to believe that those months actually happened - only evidence being the red neon letter A we’ve bought at a flea market in Dresden, now residing in the corner of the living room with a view of the street. And a late but hopeful resolution to write.