The new apartment: rent paid, deposit paid, bills paid, maintenance paid. Many things have been earned and the apartment has been paid for - might we earn things here daily. The low morning sun stretching down the tree-lined street. The cold concrete of the balcony, the plastic rectangles full of shivering pansies, the dust gently moving between the twice-paned doors - all this might have been earned.
In the kitchen, sunlight might play out against the claimed wood (another story there, with entire blocks being evicted in deep Kreuzberg, the gentrifiers winding their inevitable way to the fringes of the city's inner housing areas). Sunlight might dip its shadowy intent beneath the roofs, or just above them, scoring an invisible arc into the graded sky. Move it does, only perceptible though when set against a straight line, a row of tiles or a horizon. Might it too throw Venn diagrams of shade onto the freshly painted wall, or flatten a metal lampshade into a grey oval which rises against the tiles, marking the lengthening hours as it creeps? So the day progresses, leaf over leaf, rusted bicycle frame over rusted bicycle frame, the courtyard once more an ever-changing chorus of shrieks, two-stroke engines, workmen, trodden stairs and absolute silence.
There, then - a proposal, nothing more. All this might have been earned. There are collections of chance, each like packs of cards splayed out into the sunlight, ready for the choosing. Each of these collections is a possibility, each an earned moment that deserves its light.