You’re drunk and helpless, and the bright sunshine came a bit unexpected (it hurts). How long were you in there? Seven, eight hours without fresh air? The night is over, your mind is in the gutter. You look around: fuck, you were the last person to leave the club. You’re blinking, looking at the closed entrance doors. You look around again, trying to find a balance for your feet and for your mind. You don’t recognize this place anymore. Without the likeminded party kids, without the bottles on the pathway to the doors, without the faint sound of the bassline from inside those walls, without the night, this club has become something else.
Club doors become stale during the daytime — we don’t perceive any nightlife activities when the sun is out, but form huge lines as soon as those doors lie in the comfort zone of the moon. It is absolutely fascinating to consider that behind those doors, one of Berlins most essential traits — partying — sparks up every night. Behind each of those doors, an individual community arises to celebrate whatever there is to celebrate. During the day, the rest of the city is shut out. But at nights, we spill over on the sidewalks, inhabit the trains, sing along on rooftops and balconies.
Day and Night: the transformation can go by unnoticed, but we’re trying hard to take it in. It reminds us to appreciate what we have here.