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I snap a pic of a pony tailed millennial Berlin father, wearing a tee shirt saying SPACELORD MOTHERFUCKER, walking his helmeted, rollerblading seven year old daughter to the Kita am Treptower Park, a child of the recently fucked cosmos. A ubiquitous task these days, too easy. On the balcony I make the colors pop when suddenly I am proud– this has come to mean something. I’ve captured the city forever. A short life. A longer one. Who should want to partake? The question begs like a blind artist. Who else will get it? Who will look like I do and grin? I shrug the feeling off. There is no one else here. I have attempted a sort of refrain from mirrored applications, for years now, cutting myself off from manicured windows into networks of those I once knew, know now, will never know. It’s just a feeling though that preciousness has been sucked clean out of solitude.