Last Sunday I woke up suddenly saturated with East Berlin’s neurotic pursuit of the zeitgeist. It had all started on Friday in one of the cities countless cafés. I had gone up to the counter only to be confronted with a hipsterbot, who looked identical to the army of cooltaumatons that inhabit the capital’s Flohmärkte and art galleries. In fact, I’m sure that as I write, there’s a seriously ironic lab somewhere that cultivates these fashionable creatures in little petri dishes, using samples from vintage adidas tops. The specimen at the café had dark hair with a short round retro fringe and was wearing a top with seventies inspired prints in the only colours available during that decade: yellow, orange and brown. She was a hipster blueprint. She also looked a lot like me, or I looked a lot like her. I am of course no replicant. I am at least a Nexus-7.