It's a foggy, uneventful night. I am on my way to the last checkpoint — the gas pump right across the guardhouse.
It’s 7AM. I am in position. The truck driver is there by the loading bay, coffee in hand, staring aimlessly at a pile of supplies. Flour, beans, and canned food.
Another period of my life is gone. Its ashes are now scattered in the streets of Berlin; on the rooftops of Halle; along the banks of the Elbe.
A western wind has been blowing hard since early in the morning, sweeping away what is now left of a thick layer of autumn leaves.