Art by Chris Urquhart.
Our fridge doesn't work so we use the windows. Our house has eyes of cheese and ham. There's me, Patricia, Markus and Mimi the Punk packed into a flat in Neukölln, the poorest part of Berlin.
"Expiry dates are garbage," Markus says, when I flip the windowsill meat sideways, sniffing. "They exist solely to promote overconsumption."
Everyone in our flat collects German welfare except for me, because I'm not German or poor enough yet. I still have some cash from serving coffee back in Canada, and our rent's dirt cheap anyway. I came to Germany against my doctor's advice, to grow balls and get healthy again, but so far I've just gained back my normal weight. We have French cigarettes, a wax-coated candelabra and Turkish chocolates someone found in a dumpster. In the mornings the lunchmeat lies fermenting on ...