Berlin now warm, the days are spent writing. The nights are spent invariably next to an open window, reading, or in a small bar, sitting on the street with quiet friends, talking. Thus begin the divisions of the day from the evening.
Stories within stories offer little respite to an archaeologist, but it is clear to the casual observer – if there could be such a thing – that all divisions are imprecise. Rather, to say all divisions can be once more divided would be a truth more applicable.
Place divisions between yourself and your recall, your future and your past, the moment you are in and the moment that just vanished behind you. Place divisions between the thoughts of your younger self and the words of your future self, between your narratives and your memories of the events that make up those narratives.
These divisions are so entirely infinite that one cannot say for certain that there are in fact divisions at all. The voices belong to others but the story belongs to no-one. Yet, it is not impossible to detect a hand reaching out through one's sobriquet towards a real sense of being. A character begins to form, not quite yet a person, but certainly not an objective viewpoint.