night knows everything

I figured out you and me in this place, telling untold secrets. Outside was a veteran with Soviet accent and inside no music, only the tinkling of a chandelier bigger than a crystals fountain. The whisper of foreigners to the waiters in uniform and me, falling asleep while city's running through monday morning.  This is not Berlin, but an unhappy colony where to find a new European verginity. Soho House •  Torstraße 1, 10119 Berlin

   Have you ever been to a place without clocks? Where you close your eyes, and you don't know who you are anymore? Now it's Sunday, or Tuesday, or Saturday. Instead, I go ahead without looking at the sky because the turbid water slows down the arrival. I am in East Berlin and the only one offering me something illegal is Italian, go figure, while everyone looks like their are keeping up with the night just with chestnuts beer.   Outside there's a floating wooden platform lightened by the red kisses of the lamps hanging from the trees, while inside there's a vibrating closet where you can sweat until your muscles keep up. At the end, a Sicilian guy ready to soak up your hunger with a pizza that makes you homesick.   They say that this place never closes. Maybe it's true because someone has the attitude and the moves of someone who combed his hair about two days ago to get rea

It starts slowly and gently, you can feel it as a tunnel of vibes under your shoes. With millimeter precision it grows and climbs on your legs, stomach, mouth. The still air of this airport is warmed by a grand piano, an harp, a cello, a violin, a tuba and a xylophone. Everything is stirred with electronic percussions and machines hidden behind lecterns and music scores. Classical and futuristic in the same time, their music denies time and belongs just to itself. As a secret. The Brandt Brauer Frick Ensemble Opening Show @Berlin Festival   • Flughafen Tempelhof - Platz d er Luftbr ücke - 12101 Berlin

No pictures, no mirrors, here the image is a banned code, as sight is useless. The only thing speaking is sound. Here, inside this crumbling derelict, encrusted at the end of a street that seems to stretch in between of nothing. The taxis' bright lights are a shell of fireflies, maybe waiting for the millipede to slowly walk on. Very far, in the milky mouth of that mythical entity of which everyone is speaking, with that name that breaks in your palate like a rattle. We remain silent, hanging on the edge of the question: will I get in? The Cerberus at the door decide who to let in and who not, but nobody knows how they do it. Once in, the silence gets sucked up together with the colours' frequencies, and the pupils have to dilate over the smoke. Except for the flashing lasers, the console and the director desk on the balcony, there is no other kind of illumination, so it's more than easy to get lost in the gut of corridors around the dancefloor.

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 immacu

About blank puts different styles together and its location is decentered enough to make sure that you don't get there just by chance. Before the zuflucht there are six rusty stairs and the innumerable piercings of the lady at the door. Then comes the green lobby where to search the suspicious ones and the attractive ones (sometimes they go together), and two twin rooms linked by a blackened corridor. À la droite they speed up in line, nobody looks at nobody and the rhythm is dark, sharp, it melts shoes to the pavement. Techno thickens the air as in a pressurized capsule. À la gauche the rhythm is iridescent with future bass, disco and house. People move the speakers for the DJ, gabble in Deutsch and dance while studying each other, always with the beat stuck to their bottoms, dazzling.  Around the rooms, leather couches, people sleeping on them, and a garden of hanging beds with pit-stop Club Mates. Breathe. In an hour I'll open my eyes and go bac