On one of my last days in Berlin, my boss asks me to translate the word “cusp”. We are looking through the poetry collection I produced at work and, in a piece yet to be translated, which reflects on the beautifully curated children’s book Manchmal male ich ein Haus für uns: Europas vergessene Kinder (Sometimes I paint us a house: Europe’s forgotten children), I refer to someone being on the “cusp of sleep”. I ponder and eventually offer up “Grenze”, which translates as “border”.

The Vélib’ beeps, confirming my departure. I mount the bike and pedal slowly down Avenue René-Coty. I want to savour this moment: the slight chill of the breeze and my relative anonymity compared to the couples chatting in the bars along my route; a quiet period of self-reflection before the night begins.