I slipped in the snow today, forgetting for a moment the mocking treachery of winter streets in Berlin, candy-shopped with coloured light and warmth flickering from doorways and the new-year laughter of mittened groups in search of a sugared waffle on a Sunday afternoon. A cleaved second of floaty frictionlessness fucked up by a pile of bones and joints as if dumped out of a box. I look at the ice. It's right in front of my face, because I'm flat on my stomach with both palms spread wide to the gritty slush like I'm walk-of-faming it. As ever, shock delivers a weird metaexperience leaning in to read the adrenaline's newspaper. I'm impressed. I can't begin to reconstruct the sequence between putting my boot onto the slippery ice and making like a majorly penitential monk. Kudos, physics.