Coffee at Jules

it's such a rainy morning and all day the humidity is killing me with thick hands around my neck. we sit in the same room together acting like children learning to move the mouth to form new sounds that were never uttered or learned when we were children. Khurangbin comes on in the cafe and moves a little piece of me even this early in the morning while I slurp foamy oat milk and hear this couple chat with the short blonde Slavic barista about their weekend in English even though this is Berlin while their kid doesn’t say a word when he knocks his cup of chocolate milk off the table and it crashes to the floor while his parents roll their eyes and then Steiner the moment and of course this is Berlin where no one says anything on the train with this leftover Stasi affect and trauma from living under a communist state of paranoia for so long that you are always nice to your neighbors who work as content managers at marketing agencies, who dance like kinky rats with leather masks at night.