Two angers long for the glitter and desolation of Berlin. Hanging near its portal, they provide gratuitous commentary on distressed passersby, looking to mirror their wounds or at least stuff them with the resulting orange tufts of anonymous air. One anger, distracted by their parallel monologues, stops to notice the other, his pocked skin and greasy locks, then catches a beam of green light mistaken for hope, but it was only a flash of chrome from a passing train. The anger lights up, the other asks for a smoke, to which the anger says, “Nope, not tonight. You ain’t getting lucky on my dime.”
There are no words for tomorrow, yesterday, hello, or cigarettes in this gateway. The portal snaps shut its aperture, leaving them to each other and infinity—a deep purple platform braided in plastics and littered with scrap heaps, smoke rising above them into the flaming red sky.