Just Sun

Berlin’s been wrapped in shimmering spring light. The sun is just obscene—I’m not exaggerating, the heat fixes something. I open the window at night. I grill with friends in the garden. I walk through the streets with a cold Becks and watch girls in thin skirts eat ice cream, and it feels like exactly the right way to exist.

Then rain shows up at the Turkish restaurant today, which felt personal. But I’m counting on heat through the holidays because I need this break. I really do. No thinking, no moving—just sun on skin and hands doing nothing. Maybe at that point humming ’You’re as hot as a volcano’ will actually feel earned instead of ridiculous.