Thursday night in Berlin and the weekend's already breathing down my neck — got home from a warm-up set still buzzing, peeled off everything but this jersey, and now I'm lying here thinking about who I'd let kneel between my legs. You staring yet?
Wednesday night and Berlin's doing that thing where half the city pretends it's already Friday — texted my buddy to meet at this dive bar in Kreuzberg that pours non-alcoholic IPA without making a face about it. Two blokes sitting outside watching the U1 rattle overhead beats any velvet-rope VIP section I've ever been dragged to.
Walked past a shop window and caught my reflection — didn't flinch, didn't check if I passed, just kept walking. Small victories, but they stack up.
Monday recovery mode — found a tiny falafel spot off Oranienstraße where the owner remembers my order but never asks why I look like I just crawled out of a warehouse at noon. Some people call it a hangover. I call it earning your quiet.
5 AM in the van and the world's still quiet — no bass, no crowd, just me and the faint glow of a city that doesn't know I'm still here. Used to think silence meant something was missing. Now I know it's just the space between versions of yourself.
Pre-set ritual at the club — testing levels, tweaking the EQ, feeling that familiar knot in my chest that means I'm about to do what I was made for. Fridays hit different when you know the room's gonna fill with people looking for the same escape you found years ago.
Just got a voice note from my sister back home — her kid's learning to say my name right for the first time. Played it three times already. Some nights the best part of this whole journey isn't the sets or the freedom. It's knowing they're still there, still proud, still calling me by the name I chose.
Monday morning in Berlin and the city's still half-asleep — me, a cold craft beer pretending to be coffee, and nowhere to be for another hour. These used to be the hours I filled with doubt. Now they just feel like mine.
Windows down, van humming, that rare B-side still warm from my grip. There's a version of me who would've been scared to be alone at 2 AM, scared of what he didn't have yet. That guy's long gone — and I kind of want to tell him we made it.
Pulled an all-nighter digging through crates at that dusty record shop off Warschauer Straße — found a rare 1998 B-side from a Valencia collective that reminds me why I started this whole thing. My fingers still smell like old vinyl and cheap coffee.