I have often wondered if places hold traces of the past beyond the past’s material inscription. If the pain or joy of a family who has moved out of a house still resides there in some ineffable way. If tragedy stays somewhere in those walls. If memories float through the hallways. Or maybe, the presence
My friends have long made fun of me for how I dance. I have long lanky arms that swing when I move. I have a strange habit of shifting my elbows in robotic motions to the rhythm of a song. My legs stay firm while my upper body moves. I look like some odd machination.
35 eager (vaccinated, tested) concertgoers snuggled into the cozy interior of FRAMED Berlin, a cultural salon and gallery in the Friedrichshain district. Berlin’s long summer was coming to a close and couples nestled in corners, wine in hand, and closed their eyes to focus on the sparkled sounds of Spanish guitar and a soaring voice