This is what happened 2013: I had arranged a few days back with a writer whose name you might or might not know to meet at Mogg & Melzer on Auguststraße around four. He wanted to go and see the game of Alba Berlin later, I wanted to back to the office to work hard on uncovering the spying on Angela Merkel. Earlier that day a link floated by on Facebook, I grabbed it and opened it and there it was, it was from the New York Times and it said, I think, that Mogg & Melzer is the best. I was glad for our friend Oskar who is the Melzer in Mogg, but of course I had not read the article. I had scanned it. I had looked at it and made some assumptions and was surprised to find Mogg & Melzer in the company of Tim Raue and the Werneckhof in Munich, I thought it odd, still, I was happy for our friend Oskar. When I met the writer whose name you might or might not know he said that the same had happened to him. He saw the link on Facebook, he opened it, he looked at it and thought that it is the usual New York Times stuff about Bergen-Bensheim or some other small town with twelve Three-Star-Restaurants, he scanned the text 27,4 percent or even less, he had the feeling that he had read the text, and we were both very happy. The writer whose name you might or might not know then looked around, there were the usual hipster tourists in the corner, a Spaniard with a goatee and his tattooed girlfriend, in the other corner a famous artist nobody knows with his three mistresses or two children, I was not sure, next to us a collectors couple from Düsseldorf about to hire Sheikha Al-Mayassa as their chief curator (more about that soon, hush-hush) – but there was no Moritz von Uslar. This was odd, the writer whose name you might or might not know said, Moritz von Uslar was here whenever he, the writer, was here. We had Mergez and Pastrami Sandwich and Mint Tea, we talked about longreads, yes yes, and the future of publishing, haha, but he had to go to the Alba game and I had to do my Julian Assange shit, so we left at five fifteen. On Auguststraße, we were about to say good-bye, the writer whose name you might not know leaned down and looked at a lantern and said, Look, the sticker, it is Moritz von Uslar.