David Bowie has returned to Berlin and he’s wandering the streets, in what looks to be a black lab coat, wondering if the darkest hour is a prelude to the end of time, or the loss of love, or is it timeless love? Dead umbrellas collect the waning rainfall and nothing is for certain in the new city, except its own unimaginable past, which is constantly folding into the present and finding its way into Bowie’s field of revision. He’s a ghost shifting through former selves, filling cracks in the faces of people he passes through in train stations and the underground labyrinths of memory and reflection. Bowie is a man lost in time, winding through Potsdamer Platz, his own face obscured by a block of violent negative space. He’s moving among us, an invisible presence, walking with the dead. His imagination has not faded to dust. Bowie is flying high, smashing windows and still wishing we could swim like dolphins, just for one day.