The film is heavy and thick.

I pull it out of its slumber,

expecting it to snarl at me.

I spin it on the reel,

a satisfied click as it rusts into place.

The summing sound escapes the machine.

A lightning strike fills the room,

I’m in frigid Berlin,

travelling in a dusty carriage

Crowds Tummel around a stage,

listening intently.

Factory workers rush to the tram.

The picture changes.

My hands are raw, blisters building,

scrubbing at the bloody cloth.

My mouth fills with the taste of bitterness,

I inhale the dirty dust

floating in the air.

The sound of canons fills my ears,

the smell of unwashed bodies drifts to my nose.

I scratch at my skin, stinging from the rough wool.

I’m back in the room.

The light is out, breathing in the darkness.

Gone is everything.