A friend in Berlin asks me to show her some of my drawings. I unpack my tatty suitcase and am embarrassed by my usual messy pile of dream junk - broken pairs of glasses, electrical components, a tangle of wires, scraps of paper and a couple of small sketchbooks. One drawing I find is like a miniature Escher of a crowded building complex. I delicately brush the image with black ink and all the tiny figures appear to raise one arm in Nazi salute.
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