I come from a country where pancakes are a dinner-food, but I don’t try to overcomplicated things too much and enjoy them for breakfast, and lunch, every now and again too. The thing is, I’d rather enjoy them with you. Set on a balcony with a lovely view of the city, the first rays of sun – a scene of which I’m not sure if we just gotten home from a fine party or just woke up by the summers early rise. I want to lay in a park with you: an image of you slowly taking a drag from your cigarette, and me reading one of my many art magazines. We could walk hand in hand, stroll past the many stands of the Mauerpark market on a Sunday. Get icy drinks, sit in the sun, play pool, get drunk, fuck, sleep, have breakfast… Do it all over again.
There are many things I could add to this unrealistic sum that would sound idyllic and brilliant, but they shouldn’t (and wouldn’t) happen – because there is no you, only me. Even trying to imagine this I remind myself of the desperate 16-year-old version of a friend who’s moving in together with her boyfriend sometime this year.
Which is lovely, because at least I’m able to have pancakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner – set on a balcony with a view.