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The day of the squirrels, from No Bliss
by Gabriel René Franjou
In the dark eyes wide open and have been for hours. Laying naked on the duvet-less duvet cover because the temperature has stayed the same all night, I’m waiting for daybreak and for Charlie’s return. My cell is dead, and there’s still no way to charge it. Power is down in the whole neighborhood, perhaps even the whole city. The spinning icon on the otherwise blank computer page had kept on turning until the device, emptied, had shut down with an austere sound. When, from time to time, I glance over to the upright laptop screen, the rotating loading image appears on it, before I have a chance to properly distinguish my reflection. Eyes back on the ceiling, the icon persists in the back of my mind, and, still, nothing comes.
Night falters. It is hot and noisy and long in its final hours. There’s been some ruckus in the streets, chants and shouts, joy and panic, crashes and some sirens. I think a large gathering walked by. I heard a helicopter flying real low, and I wondered, have I ever been inside a helicopter (I’m not sure). Under cover of darkness and without power, the city seems freed – but no visualization, no picture comes to mind. I want to not worry about my friends too much but I worry a bit. I hope Bliss and her friend got home safe. The alcohol has upset my stomach, but despite all of this, I feel calm, pacified, downright alone. Sweat sticks to the hair of my leg, I haven’t moved in a while. I don’t know what time it is, I don’t wear a watch.
I’d expected to see the invasive light of streetlamps, recently converted from gas to electric, fill my room before dawn showed up, but not for today. The signs of the return of daylight, black fading to blue, brings me back to time, and after a last futile look at my screen, I methodically shut my eyes. When, finally, the picture of the rotating sphere erases itself from my mind, when I start to feel my body sink in my sky-blue bed sheets, the blank fills up with a bright, warm light. I hear a key turning in the apartment's industrial lock. Between breathless gasps and laughs Charlie shouts ALLES GUT – when the door shuts I feel my the corner of my lips curl up ever so slightly, and I fall asleep, like every time, soothed and cradled by the image of flames burning a world away, and it’s like they’ve always been there.
I don’t sleep much, bothered by the day. I don’t linger in bed, and as I get up, I faithlessly flick the light switch, up-down-up-down. Useless. I attempt turning on the computer, unresponsive as well. A sharp rush of panic floods my throat, but it passes. I tiptoe into the common area. Katja and Idris, and Charlie and Shen (Shen is one of Charlie’s lovers) are all sleeping on the couch or near the couch. I look at them for a little while, standing there in such a way as to let the sun’s rays hit the back of my neck. What a life, I tell myself. I decide I want to make them some scrambled eggs, but when I open the cupboard to grab a pan everything comes crashing down and that wakes them. Anyway the cooker’s not working either. In the end, it’s Idris who makes us breakfast.
I pour everyone glass of lukewarm juice and my friends tell me about their night. When the sound suddenly shut down in the club, Charlie kept on dancing, but Katja and Idris felt something was off. In total darkness, disarray quickly swept the nocturnal animals when they realized they couldn’t get service on their phones. People forced out of various clubs found themselves outside, high and dumbstruck, and many small groups formed. Idris got adsorbed and lost into one of them, Charlie bumped into Shen; pretty soon, Polizei circled a group of partypeople gathered in the eerie landfill near the cluster of clubs. Idris, Antoine and a couple of others were later found in front of Treptower Park. They were at the side of at least three wounded, one of whom was bleeding profusely from the brow ridge and another claiming to have two broken toes. From the park radiated an aura of total, Dionysian, chthonian chaos, Charlie recounts, her eyes sparkling.
The tale of the rest of their evening goes in one ear and through the other. As my gaze follows Idris’ pointed finger to a corner of the flat, I discover a couple of modest treasures: three pulled-out surveillance cameras, a construction lamp, and a pile of wilted roses (there is a petal still caught in Shen’s long dark curls, and a minuscule incision on Charlie’s thumb). With the last of my juice I swallow three pills: zinc, vitamin C, and my meds. The glasses are empty, the story is over, my friends are safe and sound. For no particular reason I rise from my chair. Short silence. I tell them that as for me, I stayed motionless in bed all night long. I ask no questions about Bliss. Unanimously, we decide to spend the day outside and to take advantage of the mess the sun the liberty. Detox, baby, detox, Charlie tells me; KEIN INTERNET, Katja adds. No choice, I reply. I’m ready.
Ending its descent towards the asphalt, the heel of my boot smashes a massive shard of glass. The sound frightens me but I’m not hurt at all. We’re running, escaping the cloud of tear gas, we’re all loudly laughing; we can barely hear each other over the ambient noise. The people are euphoric and the Polizei is getting pissed. It’s evening now, it’s still light out and everyone is down in the streets. Mitte’s storefront windows were blown to pieces last night and the fragments litter the sidewalk, it’s the hottest day of the year, it smells of molten rubber and sunscreen. We’ve had good fun. We’ve had enough now, and rumor has it the military showed up in a certain districts. So we’re heading home.
Once away from the urban chaos, we look at each other, making sure everyone’s here and everyone’s okay. All wearing black (just in case), our backs soaking wet, but unhurt, we embrace and the smell of our perspiration tickles. We giggle, we cough, Idris’ eyes and cheeks are damp (he always gets too close). Here in the city center, Polizei is guarding fancy shops and banks. We were at a gathering not far from Alexanderplatz where a bunch of young Slavs were giving away food and water, and twenty minutes ago, we saw a bunch of overenthusiastic people dressed in animal costumes shouting and parading, five minutes later the Polizei charged and yeah, we escaped. I tell myself, how absurd, this whole get-up, all this equipment, in this heat, the boots, the helmet, the armor. And this drive for violence, such excessive zeal under the sun, how do they do it, how could they do it? The party’s ending. We slowly drag along home, despite the speed Katja and Idris take by dipping their key in a implausibly large green plastic baggie. Charlie and Shen, they’re still running on the pharmaceutical grade amphetamine that Shen’s twin knows how to cop online, it offers a cleaner and smoother high. The walk home is long, really long, but by no means unpleasant, and I feel like I’m floating. I feel real light without the weight of my phone in my pocket (I left it at home on purpose), without my keys too (those I forgot).
We cross the dirty city, dirtier than ever (empty aluminum cans, mystery liquids, fluorescent flyers, and so on and so forth). We encounter bands of expertly made-up and carefully casual teenagers, families walking their kids, a Mercedes SUV in flames (timid flames), an impressive amount of still dripping graffiti, an older couple in matching sunglasses holding hands, disfigured dogs playing, fighting, even an uprooted sapling (makes my heart ache). Some neighborhood residents have set up charging stations with the help of emergency generators. All the cell towers in town are out of order – we don’t really know what happened, but it sure looks like sabotage. Though the air doesn’t feel as thick, relieved of its electromagnetic fog, it remains saturated by aggressive odors exacerbated by the harsh sun: the capsaicin from the tear gas, the various volatile organic compounds from the spray paint, the trash, molten rubber still, and vague waves of burnt flesh. People look down on the bustling streets from their concrete balconies, sipping beer or, more rarely, wine. The streetlamps are all out. I wonder if the Berlin Senate has here as well already completed the conversion of the historic gas lamps into electric. I wonder if, at this hour, at this time of the year, they would usually be on.
Under the linden trees of Kreuzberg, objects, litter, or wasted artifacts have been dropped off, forming hybrid and absurd piles. People keep giving and taking, in a calm but constant to-and-fro. The piles never diminish. I recognize forms, but I’m incapable of naming a single item. A shapeless mass, a mush of signifiers; and I tell myself, again, every single day: the world is full of objects, more or less interesting; I do not wish to add any more. But still I extract myself from our group’s trajectory to drop off the glass bottle that held the sugary drink I drank too fast. A sunbeam (the sun low in the sky by now) reaches my pupil and at the bottom of the pile, the middleman reflecting the light, sole object around that appears to me as definite: a surveillance camera, cables carefully sectioned. I pick it up and hold it against my chest as I return to my friends, crossing Katja who, with a grunt, picks up my bottle and heads to an overflowing garbage can on the other side of the road. I tell them: for your collection, they laugh, I feel like I'm helping. It’s rather nice to have spent the entire day outside. I remember telling myself, yesterday evening, that the night would be special; no doubt it passed its promises on to today: a special day. I wonder if all it takes is a day without internet, and then I realize I’d be glad to be reunited with the network. And I tell myself it’s also possible to have special days on the internet. Got to believe it, because that’s my life. What a life, I tell myself. Shen says who wants more speed? Nobody does, this time. A bottle of water is passed around, the heat takes its toll. I drink in small sips, like I was taught.
The abnormal sound of a motor has us turning our heads. Walkers hush, leave the streets to join the sidewalk, and the growl of the military 4×4 slowly descending on the avenue fills the evening air. The young soldiers, tanned, shaved, spotted, stare at the people as they pass. They clutch their weapons. The right-side tires leave behind them a thin brown track, that could just as well be blood, mud, or shit. The overwhelming smell of gasoline nauseates me. The car is so slow it seems to be parading on a conveyor belt, the kind one sees in airports, which lends it a solemn but brutal aura, one that oozes authority, totally in line with my idea of everything military. In a moment too stretched, the vehicle shrinks in the perspective and the scent of linden trees (that famous scent) reappears, overpowering the toxic emissions. Jesus, whispers Idris (in English). Katja, who had remained alone on the opposite sidewalk, crosses the street, comes to us, and barely parting her lips she tells us that the trash can is full of dead squirrels. Again, I think of last night, but before we even have time to linger on what she just confessed, a strong white light floods her face; Charlie attempts a sound, it sticks to her throat, and all at once the streetlamps jolt on. The historic models have not survived here. No cry of joy is heard. It is still light out, but the day is done. In the distance, the 4×4 turns and disappears; and I know, I just know that in my memory, the lights will turn back on along the military vehicle’s descent, patiently, one after the other, order restored to the city.
Our apartment's lights cut out radiant rectangles in the falling dusk. We’d spent too much time playing with the useless switches to remember to leave them in the off position. As we climb the stairs, nobody speaks. We hear neighbors gathered in the courtyard. Inside, still silent, we all find an outlet to plug our phones into and wait for their rebirth. I drop off the camera, that I kept close to my chest, in the corner with our other treasures. I signal to my friends that I'm heading to my room. I take my time. I have a glass of water in my hands. Outside, I hadn’t been thinking of her, but now, connected, yeah: I’m thinking of Bliss. I plug in my computer’s power supply and it turns back on. As I open my browser, it suggests I resume the previous session. I accept. Different tabs successively open until I once again encounter the blank page, the emptied architecture of its interface, and the spinning icon that haunted my night, burnt into my retina. When it eventually disappears, meaning the page has finished loading my request, another kind of void surfaces: no results. In the suggestions listed by the website, my eyes scan the screen, searching for a green flash, a picture of her; I find none. I frown. I get up and fill my glass of water.
My friends are scattered between the floor and the sofa, all lighted by the halo of their devices, which seems to pixelize their features. I scoot over between them and check my phone to see if it has sufficient battery. I’m going to have to explore.
First Katja’s friends, then Idris’, on one two three platforms – Charlie and Katja, embracing, Katja naked in the grass, a smiling sun emoji on each nipple, a studio at school with a nice light, Berlin Brussels London Munich Düsseldorf Marseille Bucharest Kiev Manchester Leipzig Accra Dakar Amsterdam Antwerp the countryside, a river, poppies, Google Maps marker the end of the world, the U-Bahn’s camouflage motif, the school’s roof last night, Charlie, Charlie, another picture of Charlie, smiling, and a sentence with a blacked-out word overlaid with the word Charlie, I want a Charlie for president, Idris in absurd low angle, back on main page, nothing, last night at school, official account, the school’s sapling when it was still young, huge near monochromes canvases, a bunch of cables, a sunset, Charlie again, Fernsehturm made up of pixels, the club kids all dolled up, high heels I want to lick your eyeballs, a biennial every two years and a triennial every three years, exhibitionnism in bad faith, imagine being anti-socialism and still living in a society U R ON AN ANTIFA WATCHDOG HITLIST, another day (but why?) – Treptower Park’s soviet statues, soiled and tagged NO TECH NO COPS NO GODS NO BLISS in red and NO INTERNET NO LIFE in black a swastika in black too but covered in yellow scribbles my baby got cloned an sextagenerian in leather harness shouting in German do you part!!! illegally download paywalled knowledge!!!! yeah guys not gonna lie i really do feel kinda YOLO a squirrel in a blue sports car GET IN LOOSER we’re fuckin up Berlin did you see them, did you the stylish kids in the riot, THIS is how birds fly, you ever use your vacuum sealer for something other than food let me scan the faces in the crowd the images are short vibrant they do not persist enjoy yourself because you can’t change anything anyway, Charlie dancing, zoom, slow beads of sweat, the school’s main hall and there I am, alone in a corner, not my good profile, a work of art and another work of art a kebab-stained shirt a diabolical squirrel POV you are a German electrical infrastructure a Polizei officer beating up a guy on the ground and David Bowie playing do NOT communicate telepathically with me or my spaceship ever again need a multidimensional girlfriend right about now finally a complex apartment complex, a car with all its windows smashed a husky riding on top Antoine posing with his paintings Antoine in his living room dancing – pause, screen, let go – Antoine holding a dead squirrel damn you killed it on the harp check it out she’s really good on the harp hey where did it go huh, tell me where did it go, Kreuzberg’s dirty pessimism the chancellor talking shit i love my above hole in the ground now fill it with water an American talk show host talking about us a video of me, thirty seconds ago, from the opposite end of the room and Charlie smiles there’s humming at the end what is it called, this melody, at the end, the professors photographed unbeknownst to them clown and a clown filter, nothing, not a trace, nothing to see, what the establishment truly fears does anybody still make spaghetti anybody hungry or nah not really a squirrel’s mugshot the industrial revolution and its consequences have been a disaster for the human race total chaos bricks bottles tear gas water canons dogs tasers molotovs jesus christ a molotov Katja wearing way too much make up an unconscious cop taped to his car another goddamn squirrel on the cover of the thirst for annihilation I’ve had enough I feel sick and a shark on a loop biting a cable the elite wants you to think it was squirrels but think think a shout from the outside a squirrel energy drink in hand in at a keyboard ALRIGHT BOYS WE’RE IN the evening news and the roundup, the hurt, the dead, a group of French men stuck in the S-Bahn and they’re singing (in French) a barbecue in the middle of the road and that same video of the lawman beating up the poor guy and he’s fucking laughing do not research do NOT research it would seem that things as they always do in Berlin have calmed down this city is a gaping scar no lessons have been learned first as tragedy then as farce back to the evening news and a tall blonde with her hair sticking out her hand-knit balaclava keeps saying, again and again and again like a robot das Paradies das Paradies, and there, finally, in the background, breathe in, a hand is carefully covering the features of a face framed by hair too green and too shiny; with the tip of the index I gently tap and nothing, halted between my fingers the image swells until it blurs into abstraction, breathe out, and the video plays on, the crowd suffocating in the tear gas and then immediately an ad for organic deodorant. When I raise, Katja says: the squirrels, it was the fucking squirrels.
And I can say is: tell me about Bliss.
The day of the squirrels, from No Bliss
by Gabriel René Franjou
In the dark eyes wide open and have been for hours. Laying naked on the duvet-less duvet cover because the temperature has stayed the same all night, I’m waiting for daybreak and for Charlie’s return. My cell is dead, and there’s still no way to charge it. Power is down in the whole neighborhood, perhaps even the whole city. The spinning icon on the otherwise blank computer page had kept on turning until the device, emptied, had shut down with an austere sound. When, from time to time, I glance over to the upright laptop screen, the rotating loading image appears on it, before I have a chance to properly distinguish my reflection. Eyes back on the ceiling, the icon persists in the back of my mind, and, still, nothing comes.
Night falters. It is hot and noisy and long in its final hours. There’s been some ruckus in the streets, chants and shouts, joy and panic, crashes and some sirens. I think a large gathering walked by. I heard a helicopter flying real low, and I wondered, have I ever been inside a helicopter (I’m not sure). Under cover of darkness and without power, the city seems freed – but no visualization, no picture comes to mind. I want to not worry about my friends too much but I worry a bit. I hope Bliss and her friend got home safe. The alcohol has upset my stomach, but despite all of this, I feel calm, pacified, downright alone. Sweat sticks to the hair of my leg, I haven’t moved in a while. I don’t know what time it is, I don’t wear a watch.
I’d expected to see the invasive light of streetlamps, recently converted from gas to electric, fill my room before dawn showed up, but not for today. The signs of the return of daylight, black fading to blue, brings me back to time, and after a last futile look at my screen, I methodically shut my eyes. When, finally, the picture of the rotating sphere erases itself from my mind, when I start to feel my body sink in my sky-blue bed sheets, the blank fills up with a bright, warm light. I hear a key turning in the apartment's industrial lock. Between breathless gasps and laughs Charlie shouts ALLES GUT – when the door shuts I feel my the corner of my lips curl up ever so slightly, and I fall asleep, like every time, soothed and cradled by the image of flames burning a world away, and it’s like they’ve always been there.
I don’t sleep much, bothered by the day. I don’t linger in bed, and as I get up, I faithlessly flick the light switch, up-down-up-down. Useless. I attempt turning on the computer, unresponsive as well. A sharp rush of panic floods my throat, but it passes. I tiptoe into the common area. Katja and Idris, and Charlie and Shen (Shen is one of Charlie’s lovers) are all sleeping on the couch or near the couch. I look at them for a little while, standing there in such a way as to let the sun’s rays hit the back of my neck. What a life, I tell myself. I decide I want to make them some scrambled eggs, but when I open the cupboard to grab a pan everything comes crashing down and that wakes them. Anyway the cooker’s not working either. In the end, it’s Idris who makes us breakfast.
I pour everyone glass of lukewarm juice and my friends tell me about their night. When the sound suddenly shut down in the club, Charlie kept on dancing, but Katja and Idris felt something was off. In total darkness, disarray quickly swept the nocturnal animals when they realized they couldn’t get service on their phones. People forced out of various clubs found themselves outside, high and dumbstruck, and many small groups formed. Idris got adsorbed and lost into one of them, Charlie bumped into Shen; pretty soon, Polizei circled a group of partypeople gathered in the eerie landfill near the cluster of clubs. Idris, Antoine and a couple of others were later found in front of Treptower Park. They were at the side of at least three wounded, one of whom was bleeding profusely from the brow ridge and another claiming to have two broken toes. From the park radiated an aura of total, Dionysian, chthonian chaos, Charlie recounts, her eyes sparkling.
The tale of the rest of their evening goes in one ear and through the other. As my gaze follows Idris’ pointed finger to a corner of the flat, I discover a couple of modest treasures: three pulled-out surveillance cameras, a construction lamp, and a pile of wilted roses (there is a petal still caught in Shen’s long dark curls, and a minuscule incision on Charlie’s thumb). With the last of my juice I swallow three pills: zinc, vitamin C, and my meds. The glasses are empty, the story is over, my friends are safe and sound. For no particular reason I rise from my chair. Short silence. I tell them that as for me, I stayed motionless in bed all night long. I ask no questions about Bliss. Unanimously, we decide to spend the day outside and to take advantage of the mess the sun the liberty. Detox, baby, detox, Charlie tells me; KEIN INTERNET, Katja adds. No choice, I reply. I’m ready.
Ending its descent towards the asphalt, the heel of my boot smashes a massive shard of glass. The sound frightens me but I’m not hurt at all. We’re running, escaping the cloud of tear gas, we’re all loudly laughing; we can barely hear each other over the ambient noise. The people are euphoric and the Polizei is getting pissed. It’s evening now, it’s still light out and everyone is down in the streets. Mitte’s storefront windows were blown to pieces last night and the fragments litter the sidewalk, it’s the hottest day of the year, it smells of molten rubber and sunscreen. We’ve had good fun. We’ve had enough now, and rumor has it the military showed up in a certain districts. So we’re heading home.
Once away from the urban chaos, we look at each other, making sure everyone’s here and everyone’s okay. All wearing black (just in case), our backs soaking wet, but unhurt, we embrace and the smell of our perspiration tickles. We giggle, we cough, Idris’ eyes and cheeks are damp (he always gets too close). Here in the city center, Polizei is guarding fancy shops and banks. We were at a gathering not far from Alexanderplatz where a bunch of young Slavs were giving away food and water, and twenty minutes ago, we saw a bunch of overenthusiastic people dressed in animal costumes shouting and parading, five minutes later the Polizei charged and yeah, we escaped. I tell myself, how absurd, this whole get-up, all this equipment, in this heat, the boots, the helmet, the armor. And this drive for violence, such excessive zeal under the sun, how do they do it, how could they do it? The party’s ending. We slowly drag along home, despite the speed Katja and Idris take by dipping their key in a implausibly large green plastic baggie. Charlie and Shen, they’re still running on the pharmaceutical grade amphetamine that Shen’s twin knows how to cop online, it offers a cleaner and smoother high. The walk home is long, really long, but by no means unpleasant, and I feel like I’m floating. I feel real light without the weight of my phone in my pocket (I left it at home on purpose), without my keys too (those I forgot).
We cross the dirty city, dirtier than ever (empty aluminum cans, mystery liquids, fluorescent flyers, and so on and so forth). We encounter bands of expertly made-up and carefully casual teenagers, families walking their kids, a Mercedes SUV in flames (timid flames), an impressive amount of still dripping graffiti, an older couple in matching sunglasses holding hands, disfigured dogs playing, fighting, even an uprooted sapling (makes my heart ache). Some neighborhood residents have set up charging stations with the help of emergency generators. All the cell towers in town are out of order – we don’t really know what happened, but it sure looks like sabotage. Though the air doesn’t feel as thick, relieved of its electromagnetic fog, it remains saturated by aggressive odors exacerbated by the harsh sun: the capsaicin from the tear gas, the various volatile organic compounds from the spray paint, the trash, molten rubber still, and vague waves of burnt flesh. People look down on the bustling streets from their concrete balconies, sipping beer or, more rarely, wine. The streetlamps are all out. I wonder if the Berlin Senate has here as well already completed the conversion of the historic gas lamps into electric. I wonder if, at this hour, at this time of the year, they would usually be on.
Under the linden trees of Kreuzberg, objects, litter, or wasted artifacts have been dropped off, forming hybrid and absurd piles. People keep giving and taking, in a calm but constant to-and-fro. The piles never diminish. I recognize forms, but I’m incapable of naming a single item. A shapeless mass, a mush of signifiers; and I tell myself, again, every single day: the world is full of objects, more or less interesting; I do not wish to add any more. But still I extract myself from our group’s trajectory to drop off the glass bottle that held the sugary drink I drank too fast. A sunbeam (the sun low in the sky by now) reaches my pupil and at the bottom of the pile, the middleman reflecting the light, sole object around that appears to me as definite: a surveillance camera, cables carefully sectioned. I pick it up and hold it against my chest as I return to my friends, crossing Katja who, with a grunt, picks up my bottle and heads to an overflowing garbage can on the other side of the road. I tell them: for your collection, they laugh, I feel like I'm helping. It’s rather nice to have spent the entire day outside. I remember telling myself, yesterday evening, that the night would be special; no doubt it passed its promises on to today: a special day. I wonder if all it takes is a day without internet, and then I realize I’d be glad to be reunited with the network. And I tell myself it’s also possible to have special days on the internet. Got to believe it, because that’s my life. What a life, I tell myself. Shen says who wants more speed? Nobody does, this time. A bottle of water is passed around, the heat takes its toll. I drink in small sips, like I was taught.
The abnormal sound of a motor has us turning our heads. Walkers hush, leave the streets to join the sidewalk, and the growl of the military 4×4 slowly descending on the avenue fills the evening air. The young soldiers, tanned, shaved, spotted, stare at the people as they pass. They clutch their weapons. The right-side tires leave behind them a thin brown track, that could just as well be blood, mud, or shit. The overwhelming smell of gasoline nauseates me. The car is so slow it seems to be parading on a conveyor belt, the kind one sees in airports, which lends it a solemn but brutal aura, one that oozes authority, totally in line with my idea of everything military. In a moment too stretched, the vehicle shrinks in the perspective and the scent of linden trees (that famous scent) reappears, overpowering the toxic emissions. Jesus, whispers Idris (in English). Katja, who had remained alone on the opposite sidewalk, crosses the street, comes to us, and barely parting her lips she tells us that the trash can is full of dead squirrels. Again, I think of last night, but before we even have time to linger on what she just confessed, a strong white light floods her face; Charlie attempts a sound, it sticks to her throat, and all at once the streetlamps jolt on. The historic models have not survived here. No cry of joy is heard. It is still light out, but the day is done. In the distance, the 4×4 turns and disappears; and I know, I just know that in my memory, the lights will turn back on along the military vehicle’s descent, patiently, one after the other, order restored to the city.
Our apartment's lights cut out radiant rectangles in the falling dusk. We’d spent too much time playing with the useless switches to remember to leave them in the off position. As we climb the stairs, nobody speaks. We hear neighbors gathered in the courtyard. Inside, still silent, we all find an outlet to plug our phones into and wait for their rebirth. I drop off the camera, that I kept close to my chest, in the corner with our other treasures. I signal to my friends that I'm heading to my room. I take my time. I have a glass of water in my hands. Outside, I hadn’t been thinking of her, but now, connected, yeah: I’m thinking of Bliss. I plug in my computer’s power supply and it turns back on. As I open my browser, it suggests I resume the previous session. I accept. Different tabs successively open until I once again encounter the blank page, the emptied architecture of its interface, and the spinning icon that haunted my night, burnt into my retina. When it eventually disappears, meaning the page has finished loading my request, another kind of void surfaces: no results. In the suggestions listed by the website, my eyes scan the screen, searching for a green flash, a picture of her; I find none. I frown. I get up and fill my glass of water.
My friends are scattered between the floor and the sofa, all lighted by the halo of their devices, which seems to pixelize their features. I scoot over between them and check my phone to see if it has sufficient battery. I’m going to have to explore.
First Katja’s friends, then Idris’, on one two three platforms – Charlie and Katja, embracing, Katja naked in the grass, a smiling sun emoji on each nipple, a studio at school with a nice light, Berlin Brussels London Munich Düsseldorf Marseille Bucharest Kiev Manchester Leipzig Accra Dakar Amsterdam Antwerp the countryside, a river, poppies, Google Maps marker the end of the world, the U-Bahn’s camouflage motif, the school’s roof last night, Charlie, Charlie, another picture of Charlie, smiling, and a sentence with a blacked-out word overlaid with the word Charlie, I want a Charlie for president, Idris in absurd low angle, back on main page, nothing, last night at school, official account, the school’s sapling when it was still young, huge near monochromes canvases, a bunch of cables, a sunset, Charlie again, Fernsehturm made up of pixels, the club kids all dolled up, high heels I want to lick your eyeballs, a biennial every two years and a triennial every three years, exhibitionnism in bad faith, imagine being anti-socialism and still living in a society U R ON AN ANTIFA WATCHDOG HITLIST, another day (but why?) – Treptower Park’s soviet statues, soiled and tagged NO TECH NO COPS NO GODS NO BLISS in red and NO INTERNET NO LIFE in black a swastika in black too but covered in yellow scribbles my baby got cloned an sextagenerian in leather harness shouting in German do you part!!! illegally download paywalled knowledge!!!! yeah guys not gonna lie i really do feel kinda YOLO a squirrel in a blue sports car GET IN LOOSER we’re fuckin up Berlin did you see them, did you the stylish kids in the riot, THIS is how birds fly, you ever use your vacuum sealer for something other than food let me scan the faces in the crowd the images are short vibrant they do not persist enjoy yourself because you can’t change anything anyway, Charlie dancing, zoom, slow beads of sweat, the school’s main hall and there I am, alone in a corner, not my good profile, a work of art and another work of art a kebab-stained shirt a diabolical squirrel POV you are a German electrical infrastructure a Polizei officer beating up a guy on the ground and David Bowie playing do NOT communicate telepathically with me or my spaceship ever again need a multidimensional girlfriend right about now finally a complex apartment complex, a car with all its windows smashed a husky riding on top Antoine posing with his paintings Antoine in his living room dancing – pause, screen, let go – Antoine holding a dead squirrel damn you killed it on the harp check it out she’s really good on the harp hey where did it go huh, tell me where did it go, Kreuzberg’s dirty pessimism the chancellor talking shit i love my above hole in the ground now fill it with water an American talk show host talking about us a video of me, thirty seconds ago, from the opposite end of the room and Charlie smiles there’s humming at the end what is it called, this melody, at the end, the professors photographed unbeknownst to them clown and a clown filter, nothing, not a trace, nothing to see, what the establishment truly fears does anybody still make spaghetti anybody hungry or nah not really a squirrel’s mugshot the industrial revolution and its consequences have been a disaster for the human race total chaos bricks bottles tear gas water canons dogs tasers molotovs jesus christ a molotov Katja wearing way too much make up an unconscious cop taped to his car another goddamn squirrel on the cover of the thirst for annihilation I’ve had enough I feel sick and a shark on a loop biting a cable the elite wants you to think it was squirrels but think think a shout from the outside a squirrel energy drink in hand in at a keyboard ALRIGHT BOYS WE’RE IN the evening news and the roundup, the hurt, the dead, a group of French men stuck in the S-Bahn and they’re singing (in French) a barbecue in the middle of the road and that same video of the lawman beating up the poor guy and he’s fucking laughing do not research do NOT research it would seem that things as they always do in Berlin have calmed down this city is a gaping scar no lessons have been learned first as tragedy then as farce back to the evening news and a tall blonde with her hair sticking out her hand-knit balaclava keeps saying, again and again and again like a robot das Paradies das Paradies, and there, finally, in the background, breathe in, a hand is carefully covering the features of a face framed by hair too green and too shiny; with the tip of the index I gently tap and nothing, halted between my fingers the image swells until it blurs into abstraction, breathe out, and the video plays on, the crowd suffocating in the tear gas and then immediately an ad for organic deodorant. When I raise, Katja says: the squirrels, it was the fucking squirrels.
And I can say is: tell me about Bliss.