iben,

i delivered the doc final at 14:12 and the apartment went so quiet i could hear the canopy panels above istedgade clicking as they tilted for the sun. you know how it is — three weeks of room tone, breath edits, the producer asking if a door could close "slightly more emotionally" — and then nothing. just me and the fridge.

so i climbed out onto the fire escape with a beer from the bottom of the bin. the cargo trikes were doing their late-afternoon thing, the bakery downstairs had already sold out. somebody was practicing a clarinet on the third floor across the street. badly. lovingly. i sat there for an hour and didn't open my laptop, which felt almost rude.

i thought about the summer we shared that flat in nørrebro and you kept stealing my headphones. i never minded. i mind now that nobody steals them.

the rent here goes up again in august. i'll figure something out. i always do. but berlin keeps sounding closer in my head, iben. send me a photo of your kitchen window if you have time. i want to hear what your afternoon sounds like.

N

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