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ALLE WORKER'S PEARLS. BERGHAIN DAYLIGHT

You've gone through kilometers by yourself, trusting someone else's night stories as reliable as the chitchats of a drunken man. You've found pieces of paper speaking in German, and you decided to try, trusting the unknown.
You took the U-Bahn to Alexanderplatz to stumble upon the maps of the tourist information office and get to Ostbahnhof together with your hands sweating for abandonment. Then you found a supermarket muffled in snail slime, and the darkness led you to there, that place full of made up idioms.
Music exploded from the walls, chipped pins and lava-orange cocktails. But it was just Tuesday afternoon, and between the entrance watched by two asleep soldiers you have visited a simulated night.

Inside that there was a tunnel of receipts paid with marks. Traces of who sees dawn with his hands broken by seltz, black trash bags and eyes reddened by someone else's smoke. Then, right between a supporting column, a flying carpet. The immaculate trinity: the DJ – the promoter – the groupie, then a cube of leather laces and bulks, to explain love without women.
And a river of Polaroids taken in hell, in that place that you keep telling me about, and that now I believe it really exists. The powerhouse born from the river of systole and diastole. Friedrichshain and Kreuzberg synthesized in a heartbeat, mechanical contraption, geographic acronym. 
His Majesty Berghain.

Or /bargain/, good deal, as the builders that are destroying Berlin say. Where I met R, who fled from Athene and raped by his uncle while he was loving his man. Or I. from Tel Aviv, who had no one to buy drinks to with his American Express. C, 19 years spent in a globe where there were only his dad's guns and his Los Angeles mansion.
But I came here to know about Ostgut Ton and MDR. I wanna know how, what, and why this remnant of refugees can dictate law in our imagination.

And it seems that the techno galaxy moved over the Wall when the two abandoned districts started to host anyone who had gunpowder.
The luck of this place is that it ended up without owners more or less twenty years ago. And so, in front of the occupation of all those forgotten places, polizei was forced to ask:
-Who owns this building? -No one. In ten years the nobody's  city become the miracle where the museums enter in clubs that entered in former power plants.
A prodigy created by the urge to imagine a world without images, by using only the power of evidence.

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