The Boy Who Watched the Moon Walk Away
The heat in our apartment on the fourth floor of the Karl-Marx-Hof was not merely a matter of degrees; it was a physical weight, a thick, stagnant broth of unwashed linen, cheap tobacco, and the sour, metallic tang of the radiator that didn’t work but somehow still managed to radiate a stifling, dry exhaustion. It was July 21, 1969. The world was shrinking, pulled tight by the glowing glass eye of the television set in the living room.
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