I'm already feeling nostalgia for Berlin. When I went into the Kunstler Magazin for yet more paint, I thought ‘oh in a month I'll not be here coming to this convenient art shop with the nice auburn haired girl. I will have vanished from the Berlin life.' I am being reminded of what is going on in the world away from this, the London world, and the very different world that this is. Like a slice of a life, an interesting special life, but encased in a transparent glass large bubble separate from my other world and soon the life in the bubble will stop and the bubble will be stored away somewhere so that I can bring it out and look at the life inside it but I won't be able to get inside that particular glass bubble again. No more than I can get inside the glass bubble with my four-year-old self-running in the cornfield, with the sweet rustling stalks higher than my head and I am enamoured with the feeling of being invisible to my mother who is trying to get me inside the house to go to sleep. I run and run so happily feeling ‘I can do whatever I want.' That is what the bubbles contain, sunlit illusions of being free, liberated from real life.
