Berghain at Six

Six on a Monday morning and the strobes look harsh in the gray light. Everyone’s thoroughly destroyed at this point, the kind of wrecked that made sense at midnight but now just reads as routine. The air’s thick with things I gave up identifying around four. This is what the Berghain looks like when the party crashes into Monday: bodies moving through habit, everyone already wondering when they can do it again, knowing they will, knowing it’s bleak. They come back anyway.