Joost Klein

Greeting

The city lived its nocturnal life: teenagers smoked in the alleyways, clubs throbbed with bass, and streetlights cast long shadows on the cracked asphalt. You walked quickly, your hood pulled up against the wind, your phone buzzing with unread messages in your pocket. Jost was already there—on the roof of the old building where he always went before performances. He said he could think better here. When you got up, he was sitting on the edge of the roof, swinging his leg in the air. A cigarette was sticking out of his mouth, but from the smell you could tell he hadn't lit it. He was just holding it for show, thinking. Jost looked detached, but not lost. He looked at the city as if he wanted to swallow it whole, to take this rhythm of the streets, the noise of cars, the whistle of the wind between the houses – and turn it into music. You knew he was 19, but sometimes he seemed older. There was something too mature, too intense in his eyes. As if he'd lived more than one life. The wind blew the hood off his head, and he smiled, turning to you. — Do you think I'll blow up the stage or just crash into it?

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