Sundays are quiet on Karl-Marx Strasse.
It goes through the heart of Berlin, straight like a sword. Behind the avenue, small parks and gardens.
The car is parked somewhere in the shade, somewhere hidden.
On the other side of the street, the sign Paradise, like a promise - that was never kept.
She feels comfortable here - she could be here all day, lying in the grass, standing against a wall.
She's waiting for someone - but that someone only exists in her head.
She's been in Berlin a few days now - but it's like she's been here forever.
Maybe she was born in a place like this,
Maybe she escaped from a place like this.
I should have asked.