Taken by Berlin. Nicolas Scheerbarth
hell in the converted petrol tank. Only the naked human, an embryo, was reborn when they freed him, and here the first new skin is growing.
Did he dream of being torn out in such a way, while in Strasbourg he carried out his work endlessly, senselessly... a torment called governing... with agony as a new form of government? In comparison, the lack of responsibility of being a hostage is liberating, intoxicating. He smiles happily in the dusty warmth. Sounds of life from below from the large courtyard, the Mehringhof, echoing dog barking, distorted child voices singing a rhyme. Aren't hostages always ready to identify themselves, as survival reflex, the Stockholm syndrome?
He blinks. Next to him, a few meters away, dust particles dance in flat golden rays that break through the damaged shops. Late afternoon, the zenith of heat, time to get up. Time for discoveries. After all, what is he here for? Memory is breaking new ground. Once before in his life he was pushed into a strange world. Once before, curiosity and a spirit of adventure triumphed in him over the horror of having lost everything familiar.
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