Yet another 3-legged fox running wild among the urban periphery.

The contrast of soft skies and right angles; straight lines in earth tones and baby blue. Stark white lit by incandescent reds.

How strange to be standing on one side staring out at this Elysian landscape where once flooded the resources of Nazi fervor; where deployed squadrons of aerial bombers set out for destruction, inspired by the SS-guarded grandeur of Tempelhof Airport's massive Fascist scale.

Half-drunk teens create charred scabs on the grass after loading too much coal in their homemade grills. Porcelain skinned Saxons look up to smile with warm curiosity at all shapes, colors and sizes of people who inspire such a thing. Middle-aged men glide along on gyroscopic monowheels designed by millennial capitalists in California.

Softly cast long-shadows dramatize and beg for catharsis to be released when wide fields of view are taken in sips as big and refreshing as those from pilsners in the nearby biergarten. The enlightening hint of curry wafts and mixes with all the green on gusts of fresh air moving freely as they always have. In this realm where the land meets the sky, nothing is more potent than to be a person unobstructed and left exposed to the wind, stolen in time and space by an element all too invisible and used here, historically, for destruction. The kites catching waves like spirits possessed by the vulnerable innocence of youth say all I need to see how absurdly, painfully untenable the trends of time may be; and how silly it is that the inherited traits of a people and place can have such unforeseeable and beautiful ways of expressing themselves.

I could feel the bass from within, and remember well the smell of the urinal filled half-way with Club-Mate at 4:15 in the morning. Something pagan about the way these Germans gather and dance; entranced by the thick atmosphere absorbing echoes of prehistoric bass.

Like a buzzing wound the flesh of ego is torn apart by a siren both angelic and bloodthirsty. Bumping bodies misshapen in angular shards of neon light, stark space-like slaps of a snare played where gravity ceases to exist.

Moist and half-cooked in the smoke of marijuana and loose-leaf tobacco. Who knows what drugs this clean-cut kid - with the 90's quaff and puka shell necklace - is selling from his tube of nefarious delights to a starry-eyed Vietnamese woman hellbent on making their Euro-trip memorable by forgetting where they come from.

David — self aware amphetamine-prescribed and Asperger afflicted hyphenated Polish-German beer drinker and student of Chinese dynasties (amused by my conversation prone nature and aversion to the types of things his other american encounters tended towards).

Maya — Bulgarian ambassador of Eastern European photography, strangely potent insight into relationships, expanding power of self-limitation in creative process and intuitive connection with myself and "smart girls" with narcissistic manipulation techniques (and not the lollipop sucking man spitting threats and signing autographs with fake hashtags).

Man in wheelchair — speaking only thick and muted German while loving The Doors’ "Light My Fire" played by my 10 year-old ipod classic.

Jenny's joints — and bad breath exhaled while calling me "Borgwardt Schnitzel" in Neukölln dive bar for Euro-trashed bikers.

Persian barman — estranged by colleagues because of association with Jewish property owners but determined and convinced in his fuck you all philosophy.

David - the "German" people as a quickly constructed concept formed during a successful military response to the Romans; always an aggressive war-prone population dead set on survival and domination over perceived threats.

West African food in the hipster hub of this central European circus of symmetry, hearing only spoken words from a place where rice and bricks can mean more than dollars and cents.

Mending a broken heart in Berlin and seeking a replacement for the absence of synaptic stimulation called "love" though maybe more in mourning of the word itself and belief that anything at all between her and I resembled truth.

I write this while standing next to a barrier set up to contain a tidy, dense cluster of modular homes built for refugees. Their shoes left at the door lets me know that they are Muslim, and that here and now, at least for a while, they are home.

Marcia's fast-expired cascade of amorous amusement with me in the industrial sea of light and sound drowned in the adolescent indulgence of Berghain 30 minutes into the honeymoon. Jealousy struck with midnight after the high of being let in, as a pair of two, and laughing with tequila breath despite her slight discomfort. She'd loosened up as I slipped a filter into the joint she had me roll; just as the French people arrived.

He was from the periphery of Paris. She was only 18. ”Do I talk to all girls like that?” She didn’t need to talk to other guys she'd said. She doesn't put up with it. She liked the guy behind me anyways; circle of blond, tufted-strands atop a robust stack of flesh.

After such a quick rise and plummet past her appreciation of my dance moves and into the realm of extra-marital accusations, this aborted fetus of a bond left much to be desired. The emptiness was replaced just as quickly as it arrived with new lights and corners of the club emerging from the thick humidity of evaporating sweat.

These Semi-Truck drivers in lawn chairs with lockers full of empty vodka bottles. Downcast gazes and swarthy creased faces like coal miners after a 3 day shift.

Berlin: Walls, windows and walkers, bulbed noses, red faces and pale eyelashes; the psychedelic effect of drinking a half-liter of German beer and wandering the suburban splendor of Stieglitz with eyes wide and attached to faces that pass.

One inquisitive gaze is met with the bifocaled head of a man in a wheelchair. I can see the history of this nation in his jowls, his droopy eyelids and cool composure with much brooding in his brain beneath the surface. Such a society this is; and one that smells immediately different... mellow, soft and rich like the breeze that enters my nose and mixes with my beer-tinged breath.

This is a country where dog owners talk to their fluffy beloveds like colleagues rather than babies.

Men that need walking sticks take the stairs instead of escalators, and massive and boldly-designed buildings meant for immigrants are supported on one side by abandoned Nazi bunkers.

Fell in love with a dog. Sleek and black like obsidian and parallel to the ground like a fox. Small hints of silver around mahogany eyes that locked with mine for a brief moment of mutual recognition. Not at all wiry like a terrier but similar tufts of shaggy strands hung tightly to his lower jaw.