Around three in the morning I decided I would go to the ATM down the street and take out €50 for the haircut I’m getting tomorrow afternoon . . . it is better, I think, to do such things in the night. Then it’s over and done with and I can walk straight to Çetin the Turkish Barber, who has his own shop a few blocks from my house, and get The Ryan.

I’ve been going to this guy for years, so now I don’t even need to tell him what I want—he just starts cutting. He’s good at it! But the first few times I would say: “Graduated scissor cut . . . layered for volume. Classic taper around the ear, with more length along the second band, no disconnect, longish on top, with the most length in the front.”

He’d say: “I understand. You got a picture?”

And I’d say, “Yeah, here’s me stoned off my ass in a park in Portland on 4/20 during the best year of my adult life . . .”

And about twenty minutes later, I’d end up with something 97% of the way there, and both of us would feel very good indeed. With any luck, perhaps tomorrow Çetin and I can maintain the status quo. I simply want to look and feel like myself again. That’s all I really want these days, as the dark tide rolls in, as dread wields its mighty sword, as love withers on the vine, as fatal loss continues to pile up in the dungeon of my mind . . .

On my walk to the ATM, I saw many foxes galloping down the sidewalk and through the flower patches and forests surrounding the nearby cathedrals. People are always surprised when I tell them Berlin is full of foxes. They are everywhere. They are my brothers and sisters. And sometimes I’ll catch them squaring up to fight, or at least pretend like they are, and I’ll jump between them and and say, “Hey, hey! Knock it off, you two!” and they’ll disperse. Other times they seem to be perfectly at peace with themselves and the whole world. And sometimes on cold winter nights, they’ll curiously follow me home as I drag stolen wooden pallets back to my cellar door while heavy snow falls from the darkened midnight sky . . .

I grabbed some beautiful European Union cash from the closest ATM I could find, which is in Nollendorfplatz. The massive heatwave had passed and it was warm and breezy out . . . the place was quiet, but little groups of people were gathered here and there, mostly in front of whatever späti was still open at that hour. There was something nice and carefree about it all. You could sense a sort of happiness.

Suddenly, I felt a feeling.

I decided then I would do something I had somehow not done in a long time: I would get falafel döner. The place closest to my apartment was closed for some reason, when it’s usually open till five, so I kept walking, knowing I’d find a place open sooner than later . . . this is the official food of Berlin we’re talking about, after all. It is as plentiful as oxygen. Forget currywurst!

It took all of five minutes strolling down sleepy Bülowstraße for me to find the Bey Kebap sign lit up along the boulevard. I headed toward that loving glow as though it were an answered prayer. En route, a cute girl sitting on a stoop glanced up at me from the shadows. She smiled and said “Hello!” I said, “Hey . . .” and kept on struttin. I thought: I love ya, baby! But this dog’s gotta eat!!

Bey Kebap was fresh out of falafel, so I got a halloumi wrap and a Coke Zero to go (“Zum Mitnehmen, bitte!!!”) and then headed back out onto the empty sidewalk. I decided to take a different way home. It was a fine night for alternate routes. A little ways down the block, I saw a car idling with four dudes chillin inside for reasons I could not readily parse. They said, “Yo!” and I glanced over and saw them waving. I gave them a wave and a head nod of recognition, and departed into the darkness of Goebenstraße in the direction of home.

I had been texting Leila. I texted her again. I told her about what had just happened, that several strangers in a row had spoken to me apropos of nothing, and how this is a thing that happens to me quite often. I have never really been able to figure out why this is. It goes like this: people are always talking to me in public. This has happened in cities all over the world. If I’m sitting down somewhere, it is inevitable that someone will come over and start talking to me. When I’m walking down the sidewalk, I am the person people walk up to and ask to light their cigarette or joint. Sometimes a stranger just has something to say, and for whatever reason, they feel like saying it to me. I’m talking a wide range of people, too . . . from your neighborhood schizophrenic to someone’s normal-ass grandma. And none of them seem to have any sort of ulterior motive. They don’t want anything. I reckon I just look like a guy who wouldn’t be put off by being approached by a stranger. They’re right!

(Of course, the most likely explanation is that they all recognize me, being that I am universally beloved worldwide celebrity and all, though yeah . . .)

Walking along Pallasstraße, I saw a very small fox stop in the middle of the sidewalk and then quickly bolt through a nearby gate. I kept walking until I got to where it had been, and turned left:

For a long while, we gazed peacefully into each other’s eyes. I felt a warmth in my heart that had come from outside myself, as though something ancient and wise had smiled down upon me. It was a good feeling. The holy moment passed. In my peripheral vision I saw an adult fox pacing back and forth in the darkness and figured she was the baby fox’s mom, and that I was making her nervous. Gently I recalibrated my body and got to walking.

Back home, in my high Dracula tower, Young Gego awaited me. He screamed upon my arrival. We quickly resumed whatever it is our lives are when we are together, and felt a gladness. Or anyway, it was something bordering on that, given the state of everything right now, and what with Gego being certifiably insane, and my being cursed to live in the shadow realm till the sun absolutely sets on Time itself, and all that . . .