"You are going to profit by experience",

Nana has the beer swirling in her glass: "How about the soles of your feet?" The filmmaker listens to all stories from inside Kunstasyl. We're hanging out in our favorite pub.

At kilometer 17 of my extended Saturday morning run (spontaneously turned into a half marathon) the soles of my feet remind me of that talk we had the night before. Did I repeatedly refer to my feet's sensitivity due to the fact that I felt unbalanced, maybe even loosing ground?

The friendly morning person behind the counter at the last gas station before reaching the asylum handed me a latte. "That's 2 Euro." In four minutes Ruba and I would enjoy our weekly German-Arabic code switching between languages. I had allowed one minute for the latte. But then, I would stare at worn out and empty leather inside of my wallet. "Oops," I whispered. The man behind the counter smiled. I closed my eyes and tried again. The gaping void inside my wallet would remain. Even the few Romanian coins and the British Pound I had kept from recent trips were gone. Nothing there to give jingling comfort. There was only one dollar left.

The day before, when we had built those raised flowerbeds under the blue sky, when we had painted the backside of the construction trailer with wildlife images, someone had emptied my wallet - fast and rigorous.

I would have loved to go home this very minute.
I was close to roaring swear words.
The lump in my throat made me feel sick.

Ruba would clap her hands as if to get something off her palms. "You know," she said, "I once left a pot in the kitchen. When I went back to get it, it was gone. There are people at the asylum, who snitch everything."

I had heard the stories of stealing and thieving. Everything, made available as common property, would vanish. "You can rebuy it at the flea market in Neukölln," a resident jokingly had said.

"That's a strongman game," flashes through my mind. Some things you have to experience for yourself to believe they are true. 

At kilometer 19 I lift my head: … - Al asraq, blau. Ruba has taught me the colors. To break away, the pain and the feeling of exploitation. I imitate Ruba and clap my hands to pat off the dirt. The soles of my feet feel great.