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.