Just after seven in the morning, a bird I could not identify was rinsing reality clean with its aseptic song. By the time I took the dogs out, the minty breath of the air had already lost every trace of the digested night, yet the fallen horse-chestnut blossoms, folded in on themselves, still filled every furrow in the earth like scattered basmati rice.

may 28th • thursday

The apartment needed oxygen. For months it had been wheezing asthmatically, choking on renovation dust, drifting in delirium. I tilted the kitchen window inward, without raising the blind, not yet tickling the hydra, which, swollen with chronic curiosity, was uncoiling its heavy coils across the balconies on the other side of the street and tirelessly rummaging through drawers — not its own, peering into pots — not its own, taking inventory of secrets — not its own. The sun was drawing a glaring line at the top of the window frame — it was not white, but the union of all the colors in the world. All the arrogance of the sun came to rest on that line, and the light, embracing the kitchen from an unusual angle, took on the softness and color of goose down.

may 30th • saturday

On the way to our ritual Saturday breakfast — milk with coffee and raspberries with sponge cake, ever since the Mallorcan ensaimada disappeared from the menu — the glass facade of the University of Environmental and Life Sciences bore this footnote to Hitchcock — Please beware of aggressive crows nesting beside the water management building.

may 31st • sunday

We repotted the plants, Goblin and I. In the old, dust-powdered barracks, we staged one last prank night for them. We trimmed their insolent beards, shook out the mattresses, backpacks, and moldering sleeping bags. The pots, summoned to morning roll call, stood in a straight row — scrubbed and obedient. Just one short black-earth drill on a training ground of clay pebbles, the ironing of uniforms, the polishing of buttons. At last, the parade. At the head marched the drummers — three little parlor palms with adorable tufts. Then Dracaena and her general's plume, which bloomed like a green waterfall from a thin, hunched little stick. Behind her, Sergeant Pothos in a living coat of braided vines. Next in line — the schefflera, the canteen girl, so hungover she kept dropping both steps and leaves. Bringing up the rear, the tank dragged itself along — Goblin's great hope and great disappointment — Spider's Web Japanese Aralia, which for reasons unknown had fried every umbrella brown and now, in a Byronic gesture, lifted her shamelessly naked stems to the sky.

june 1st • monday

The center of a large city, a quarter lying roughly as far from the main square as the heart from the liver. Fumes, the metallic tang of trams, manholes bloodshot with fermenting soup, and a discordant suspension of other people's notions of painstakingly contrived freshness. The lilacs have already faded, yet the air is still fragrant — sweet and soothing — so, on my way to pick up a package with a shimmering turquoise-and-tangerine shawl inside, I conduct a botanical investigation in the spirit of Abhidharma.

I am no expert on plants — Cornelius will establish the identity of the suspects. I snap quick, terse shots of them from hiding, ugly and useful. A gang of bruisers from the black elderberry, dealing little pills of cream-colored flowers on the cheap, the wind doing the work. Rose usurers — the waspish widow Barock in a frayed apricot skirt, Miss Sympathie, whose great red baseball cap obscures both the sky and common sense, and Gloria Dei with her nicotine-yellowed teeth. A white-haired mock orange, so charming that matrimonial fraud provides him with a steady income. Privet in a Sunday suit with pearl buttons — soon, tired of his new lover, he will slip into his ratty old sweats and start dosing her by degrees. A ring of speculators — Turkish rocket and goutweed — once sown, they spend a long time building an underground network of contacts, then suddenly, without fanfare, start moving in on nearby properties, green squares, and parking spaces. An enterprising false acacia with a clutch full of uncut diamonds and a fake ID. And Japanese spirea — a shady accountant in a candy-pink beret.

The local pushers lay down a solid base note — as long as you don't come too close, don't try to get too friendly, don't shake their hands or slap them on the back, they keep their promise of a syrupy high. Cross the line, and they'll smack you over the head with a mousy little stink. The weekend poisoner and the serial beguiler are responsible for the heart note — at first both equally sensual, intoxicating, thick, and honeyed, but desire soon leaks from the capricious privet as a bitter-almond dew of boredom, while the tireless mock orange spends hours kissing his many fiancées with the bracing tartness of rhubarb stalks. The discreet smuggler and the less discreet roses arrange the top note in different ways — the elegant false acacia keeps the world at bay with the herbal perfume of young lily-of-the-valley, while the gossiping usurers draw in trade with spicy accents of clove and cardamom. Cornelius says only the speculators are innocent, because their vegetal, small-time-hustler aura cannot break through all these ethereal crimes.

And the spirea?

Acrid-scented, sharp, and sarcastic, the spirea secretly pulls the strings.

june 5th • friday

June — still in swaddling clothes — has been given a scolding by autumn, so today a patient dimness is seeping into the kitchen through the narrow gap along the top of the window frame, while a hoarse little intellectual of a drizzle quotes Hughes, Longfellow, Leśmian, and Alice Oswald. I wonder what possessed the cat owner who had decorated the cat netting around the balcony on the western side of the inner courtyard with miniature liquor bottles — at first glance, vodka, though vodka is not usually sold in pale green glass — so that now the whole thing looks like a surrealist Christmas garland. Does his cat drink?

june 9th • tuesday

Of the raw idea for a structural typology of letters — after it had been whisked into a thick eggnog with the yolk of dynastic entanglements for the introduction to AOD — all I was left with was a single sentence, the kernel of the original metaphor — Every library is made of countless capital Is.

june 13th • saturday

On the way to our ritual Saturday breakfast — milk with coffee and a warm-purple muffin, since sponge cake and raspberries were not to be had — under a monochrome sky that looked like Stefka, wind-tugged and twisted into a fit of hysteria — the slaughter of the burdocks and the next-generation golems.

I may have missed the battle scene itself, but the aftermath was still shocking. The limp banners of great leaves, open fractures, soft, ragged bones, and the faintly bitter smell of green blood. Of the host stationed along the curbs, not one had survived. I understand the idea of war — riotous vigor against civilized aesthetics, groundskeepers against weeds — and yet in this case it was a frenzy of overkill, napalm in a kindergarten, Stalingrad and the Somme. Whose enemy is burdock? Who wants so badly to lay waste to those unregarded scraps of poor ground beneath worn fences?

As a grotesque counterpoint to the still-congealing dynamics of this massacre, on the sidewalk in front of the University of Environmental and Life Sciences: a static spatial composition — because surely this was no meeting of human beings. A pocket of dead, mechanical silence in the very middle of the city's noise. Identical positions and grimaces, identical spacing between the statues, arranged in staggered rows of almost total stillness — only the eyes and thumbs are at work, keeping strictly within the frame of the phone keyboard. Golems do not know what the weather is like. They do not feel the cold. They do not look up at clouds. They do not exchange glances, do not joust with words. No name of god will bring them to life, and the wafer of sacred writing under their tongues will dissolve before they even notice it. I pass them by, and a simple thought strikes me — one slaughtered burdock still has more life and feeling in it than these thirty vegetating golems with lungs of clay.

Gloria Lappae!

A quick lunch in the town of the veterinarian and the nurse — I caught it again. The sweet, bitter, salty scent of home, of varnished wood, resinous nicks, old, slightly warped, painted-over doorframes, a scent warm even in winter — birch and soot, the dry throat of boards, everything that can't be aired out, because it has eaten into memory deeper than dust, sunk in deeper than nails so old they already look as if they've begun to melt.

The sheer curtains bear that smell most faithfully. White, with cascades of ruffles, painstakingly recreated by my mother, because she had seen such a pattern on one of her foreign escapades and came back sick with love. Afterward she combed the local fabric stores, looking for the plain, dense, one true netting, in an age of loud abundance and contempt for subtlety, when the shelves had stopped being empty, yet there was still nothing to be found anywhere. Not for those who preferred classicism over baroque. Not for us.

Here an ell, there a remnant, somewhere else another two meters or so.

She sewed for weeks, she sewed evening after evening, at the biggest table, breaking needles and her own brain over it. Nineteen windows, each one different. The machine's clatter meant intoxicating freedom, a brief escape from her bat-like hearing and dragonfly eye, because, bent over yet another template, she would forget about teenagers, tomato sandwiches, and the grave sins she was trying to prevent. You could hold a triangle ruler like a pistol and fire away, polish the cold marble floor with a denim-clad backside, lose yourself in trashy horror novels, give the concerts of your life before an audience of millions — imaginary halls know no limits. Łucznik — the thread-eater — cast so much shadow that it opened up its own Twilight Zone, and the skin, especially at the nape of the neck, all but screamed with excitement at the motor's first cough.

That smell is a phenomenon. Truly. Pine of various ages, most of it melancholy. Pine in many shapes. Age has its scent, and so does shape. Pine's sentiments, the patient calls of the stairs, the floors' monologues, the ceilings' anger, the indifference of baseboards, the joints of a house that has been fidgeting for decades, trying to find the most comfortable position — with creaks and pops like champagne corks. It loses its firmness, goes stale, and at the same time collects furrows, chips, telling scratches left by my lies and the arrogant sister's estrangement from me, the dogs' tournaments and family games, the nurse's high heels and the veterinarian's clogs, wandering furniture, dropped knives, slamming doors, our whole life, which somehow got it into its head that it was non-invasive and discreet.

In summer, that scent calls up clean, empty attics beneath roofs choking with heat, but without the characteristic note of beeswax — a bouquet tied with a chemical ribbon of oils and wood treatments, seemingly uninvited, yet exactly where they belong. In the linen closet, in that tiny, seldom-opened space, the ribbon draws tightest around the neck — to dive in there is an act of opiumism, an experience poised between the erotic and the oppressive — and the camel-wool blankets bound with it will always remain, for me, the archetype of absolute safety. Sometimes, too, a stray movement shakes the bouquet, and from the whitewashed wall a wisp of incense smoke comes loose, wraps itself around the copper trinkets and settles on the wicker baskets. In winter, furnace fumes bring their own bite, in spring — the tart sweat of awakened plants, in autumn — the pheromone of damp.

Raw timber, wood, beams and joists. The smell of surviving adolescence, and the bright name of the forest written on split birch logs, a forest that once had to die so we could live among knots, in orange rooms, rest our elbows on windowsills, listen at night as the house mutters curses, turning from side to side.

Whole meads of cornflowers. Not barely legible notes in the margins of the grain, written in blue ink, but livid faces with poppy flushes, a crowd of drowned women standing waist-deep in green sludge. Cornflower and poppy, the most Polish pair of flowers, one chronically oxygen-starved, the other hypertensive, its cheeks in a fever that never breaks. Together they look like escapees from a field hospital, the kind who take badly to enclosed spaces, even if it is only a tent divided by makeshift partitions. Seen from another angle, they are like the memory of all those school ceremonies where bespectacled children are made to recite poems about the fatherland, while a handful of parents, dying of boredom, half-heartedly pretend they still love this abstraction, that patriotism has not withered inside them like botanical evidence of guilt and cosmopolitanism. Unless, of course, a conservative daddy turns up — but today a conservative daddy attests to his love for the country on the Vistula not with Norwid, but with a baseball bat.

Cornflowers and poppies outside the train window, on the way from the town of the veterinarian and the nurse to Wro. Wro, to which I deny the right to masculine gender, because it is neuter, like milk, a rib, or an echo, and which seems to regard me as its own, though the feeling is hardly mutual.

And inside, a young guy with Courage the Cowardly Dog tattooed just under his ear. He sits sideways, baring the nape of his neck, sharing a card from his private tarot. The Magician, I think, because that paranoid beagle had an extraordinary nose for all kinds of folk magic, hexes, and illusions. As an introvert, it's beyond me how readily intimate mythology blooms on skin, so susceptible to salt and vinegar. People write picture-letters on their own bodies to caprice, daring, horror, fascination, death, longing, a sense of humor, and the absence of meaning, and then carry that correspondence with them to a fast-food joint, the dentist, and church. Or onto a train. In summer, which is a season without envelopes, the epistolography of tattoos spreads across the world.

Outside the window, the malachite-sea phase is underway. The grain crops have not yet ripened, but they are already posing as grown-ups — curves flaunted, muscles flexed — preening and lying about their age, though they are still full of imagination's sweetish sap and naive dreams. Here and there among these vibrating throngs lie golden roulades of barley straw or hay bales from the first cutting of grass. They are like sticky candies for giants, spilled from a bag torn open too violently and rolled away into the farthest corner, into the warren of dust bunnies shedding their fur.

Oleśnica — that unpleasant aunt whose calls I don't take — greets me, reservedly, with the mold-touched bread of an industrial dump. A rack of iron scrap in a storeroom of curiosities and a chaotic Dürer of weeds — no cress! — where every scraggly stalk marked by original sin has survived the apocalypse and attained redemption. This is no pretty little view, but a register of misguided decisions. Sheet metal, concrete, grass with sand in its teeth, rusted machinery waiting for reincarnation in the vestibule of Akasha. Oleśnica does not open its arms to me — it sticks out its tongue, coated with the residue of factories, depots, sidings, and unspoken exhaustion, sets a dirty glass on the table, points to the least comfortable chair. It does not sit down. It waits for me to leave.

Certain things have remained unchanged for three decades. The deserted platform kiosks — the ancient ones, wooden, dark-chocolate brown, and the younger ones faced with tiny colorless tiles, as if someone had ground up scraps of limewashed stairwells and set them into a mute mosaic. They stand shuttered, unbelievably patient. They look like the conning towers of submarines run aground in the shallows of the tracks, stripped of newspapers, orangeade, rainbow lollipops, plastic toys, and pens — indispensable trifles, little litanies to the god of travel, because who knows how the journey will end? Will we even get there, my good sir? And the once-tight railway junction gradually loosens, frays, falls apart, despite the varnish of modern conveniences.

Then fields again. Broad-hipped sugar beets, fledgling corn-girls, wheat slowly paling, rapeseed that has just stopped dyeing itself a provocative shade of blonde and is trading its neon-yellow highlights for mousy roots. They are firming up lazily, without enthusiasm, with the nonchalance of a woman over forty falling asleep unshowered but still in clip-on earrings. Birch groves flicker like musical scores released into the wind, flood polders tend the memory left by water that is, for now, uninterested, hushed, taciturn — yet all it takes is a whim of rain, a complaint from the river, a few wet weeks, and memory turns back into presence.

Overpasses before Wro. The gateway to an outlying district. If you'd behaved yourself, a graffiti buddy got you into the gallery of his pals — huge portraits on the support piers. Fame will not last forever, only as long as the preparations for a major overhaul. One morning, the butchers of Plainfield will take your face off, but I saw it, blurred by heat and speed. I know it was there — and a dozen or so others. 2012, Cornelius claims. I take this route after one hundred sixty-eight months of desertion.

And that is that. And Nadodrze. And the tram. And the present-tense home.

Poland in June, not yet dulled, slightly out of breath, all strawberries and thick braids. You won't meet her like that in the city.

(photo credits — kristina tochilko • ryan schram • vlad ionita)

(character credit of courage the cowardly dog — john r. dilworth)

As part of strengthening my tenuous ties with the Far East, I'll work out for myself a completely subjective set of Polish kō — seventy-two postcards from perceiving a city in twenty-four sekki the world has never heard of.

These kō will have none of the discipline of imperial calendars and no moon above a perfectly shaped spruce branch, unless the spruce itself nervously flicks cigarette ash onto the windowsill and the moon spreads in a buttery stain across the cold frying pan of the sky. There will be no such scrupulous register of plants germinating, flowering, and ripening, though plants will remain at the center. There will be no uguisu, seri, or ume. There will be no clean order of things, because there will be no countryside.

If the year in Wro really does come apart, it doesn't break into four great rooms, but into dozens of secret passages, hiding places, and little wine cellars. For twelve licensed months, I look closely and try to find out what moves in those corners, what shimmers there. Not in the cosmos, not in history, not even in nature as such. In afterimages. In oxymorons. Under the skin. In the disharmony between understanding and notation. Out of that dissonance a catalog will emerge — a list of small shifts in private tectonics, ridiculous illuminations, tiny chips along the edge of the legend, the one that belongs to maps, not heroes.

Japan gave refined names to the moments when nature changes its tone of voice, but Japan is the mother of haiku. How could I ever measure up to her? I suspect my kō will be, to some extent, iconoclastic in this context. Perhaps banal. Possibly arrogant. Object, element, emotion, metaphor — order optional. Irony? I don't know. That would probably verge on a crime.

I'm not trying to make this universally applicable. I'll assemble my calendar out of walks, illuminations, fits of fury, and tastes. Out of gravestones in the cemetery, on the way under the bridge. Out of evening spying on other people's lamps in lit, uncurtained windows. Out of gloves and allergies. Out of sudden changes of mood. Out of early mornings in the season of leaves still too small to raise a murmur, but already numerous enough to convene their own little parliaments. Out of vegetables and a spine picking a fight. Out of bread and circuses.

The second sekki of June — three faces of a storm that delights me, drives Milka mad with fear, and couldn't matter less to Goblin and Beza. Kō? Poplar snow.

july 1st • wednesday

Cornelius insists that dividing each conventional calendar month into two sekki is the simplest solution. Fine. Geshi is underway, the summer solstice. Japan says — ayame hana saku, the irises open. And in Wro, the lindens are taking what's theirs, without apology. I feel a constant need to ritualize everyday life, to experience it consciously, decorate it, celebrate it, so I gave symbolism a scratch behind the ear and bought myself linden honey. Even in the city, in lipiec — July, whose Polish name carries lipa, the linden, inside — there is no escaping the lindens. Only bees are harder to come by here. The neighbors of the veterinarian and the nurse will gather blossoms by the handful. All they have to do is lean out from the balconies of the yellow house, while I can pluck one tiny centuries-old wing if I manage to swim through the asphalts melting like cheese all the way to Szczytnicki Park.

Polish seasons are always smeared with something — and the dog days most of all. In that department, they are the Sèvres standard, an alloy of platinum, iridium, jam, damp pollen, ice cream, sultriness, sweat, and magma. They are fat and nauseating, hideously waxed. In Goblin's ranking of unbearable bodily adventures, wet fabric stuck to his back wins; in mine, juice running down my chin — or rather summer in toto. I have to defend myself, so I bought linden honey. After all, there is something noble in honey — it clings more subtly, gleams with gold, not pinchbeck, civilizes the glare, restores meaning to the scorching heat. I will give it a kō out of respect for the ruthless bees, on account of the blessed dried linden blossom and the scent that unrolls its Persian rugs down the corridors of the streets. I will give it a kō because it won't let me forget that summer is not only a ravager and a predator.

july 2nd • thursday

Ever since I recovered my favorite time of day — very early morning — that bird with his aseptic song has been keeping me company. In the well of the courtyard, his voice gains an almost unbearable precision, as if fingers of crystal were running across glass keys. Some part of me is waiting for the windowpanes to start cracking. And I could leave it at that if I weren't an Abhidharmaist, a fucking analyst who shot out of the nurse's womb with a long list of things to look into, because surely this whole racket — me, life, the sheet, and the miracle — calls for inquiry. I wasn't screaming because they had traded away water for light, although I still have my sincere doubts about the soundness of that transaction. I was screaming because I hadn't managed to see everything and write everything down. The stupid pressure of birth.

And yesterday I went hunting. At dawn, with a phone equipped with a recording function. And I brought home digital prey, and dressed the electronic meat in a program created solely for such purposes. Then the enigma bird suddenly became a complicated male. A vessel of contradictions. A proud, self-assured macho who loiters beneath the windows of low shrubs and draws plaintive serenades from his flute. Sylvia Atricapilla — Blackcap to friends. Annoyed by my curiosity, today — he did not perform.

Or perhaps Thursday is simply feather-washing day.

july 3rd • friday

For the record — in the morning, there are usually three musketeers. Sylvia Atricapilla, a true Aramis, a muscle-bound poet, a Blackcap without a cap in a cavalier hat — takes the lead in ornate cadences and wind etudes. Passer Domesticus, more widely known as Sparrow, a plump little Porthos, a gourmand of plenty — brandishes the rhythm section's clapper whenever he can find a moment between crumbs. Apus Apus vel Swift, cool melancholic, kindred spirit of Athos — disciplines the scattering phrases with the sharp whistle of his pipe, and raises the baton high.

And so a single piece of digital prey multiplied itself, while I established that I was dealing with an orchestra.

Geshi is underway, the summer solstice. Japan says — hange shōzu, sprouting pinellia closes the rice-planting season. Wro still under the sign of honey, with bees among concrete, against the backdrop of the first July sekki — the powder of the dog days is weathering. Aramis — washed and pressed — is back to screeching his beak off along with his mates.

july 4th • saturday

On the way to our ritual Saturday breakfast — milk with coffee and raspberries with sponge cake, with Goblin performing a brief volcada toward a frappe with Filipino ube yam — blessed coolness and swifts above the basin of public transport in a shopping gorge. I hear pipes, I watch those magnetite-black, strikethrough parentheses, and I know that everything is as it should be — there is a living sign, a body that separates itself and assimilates in the same instant. I am not seduced by constant motion, and I am not seduced by constant stillness, but they are unmoved in their chase. Which means hope still has breath in it.

july 6th • monday

I remember a small child who, on the first of June, kept getting under my feet, glancing curiously at the botanical investigation, and, as I walked home, my mind full of Abhidharma, climbed onto the spirea's lap and tried to mouth the candy-pink petals. The following morning, on my way to buy heavy rye bread, I came across a girl, maybe nine years old. That evening, I found the same girl petting my dogs outside the shop, and nine had already left her. She seemed to mature at an absurd pace, like a film run through in preview mode. Fluid, overexposed — difficult to take in with one look without slipping into a fever. The next day, her lightning-fast childhood came to an end — charming, pointless innocence gave way to the hunger of expectation. Seventy-two hours had passed. The dog-day heat had done her makeup carefully — a bold line, foundation flawlessly smooth — and headed into town.

Back then, in June, she was invincible. She'd hit all six numbers in the lottery of youth — she trusted and did not apologize, took and felt no fear, had it in her and asked no questions. She entered everyday life as if joining a tango. A tourist drunk on adventure, one who belongs everywhere. In pastry shops and at student picnics, at open-air cinemas and train stations. At vegetable markets and bus depots, in libraries and on promenades along the Oder. Under bridges, in the synagogue, in the ring of petty offenses and serious crimes. Needing people in order to define herself, she looked for them at openings and in abandoned buildings, in underpasses and on school playing fields. She was in every place at once, and at night she danced in clubs. She did not sleep, because youth does not sleep — it only rests its forehead on the table for five Hail Marys or a quarter hour. Her body checked its creditworthiness and granted her a high-interest loan.

She appeared uninvited and did not disappear without consequences. Shameless and disarming, she stole dignity, cash, grub, and common sense from others. She laughed too loudly, until at last someone seduced her as part of crossing another item off his vacation list. Then — he moved on.

The sekki had turned toward three faces of a storm. Makeup resisted, not unscathed. A lash, sticky with mascara, fell out. The nose said goodbye to a touch of matte elegance. Blush went gray on her cheeks. Scabs of strawberry ice cream had set in the corners of her mouth. But when the woman was drinking herself into a stupor and smashing bottles in the air above the guy behind the bar, no one was looking too closely. They understood. Youth, split by thunder, wandered through the rain-sobbing streets of its own humiliation, with a hailstorm of disbelief in the background. The woman herself — did not cry.

Older by that bitterness, the heat got out of bed at the beginning of July, fixed the liner, swept ultraviolet shadow over the lid, and went back to familiar ways with fresh intensity, though already stripped of intense freshness. Now she existed everywhere, passively and ruthlessly. No longer having it in her, she grew exacting. Interactions were exhausting, so attention shifted to the city. She saw the sights, admired architecture. Evenings, she still drank, finding a perverse kind of sense in it. But July was not June — in July every pleasure waved a receipt, nights demanded a warranty, four in the morning warned of an overdraft. When the creditors appeared, the woman retreated into a cocoon of cigarette glow and calmly drifted home. On the walk, a tally of effects took shape — scalded gateways, chapped squares, faded fountains, lawns dyed with ocher and sienna, red-hot metal handrails. A new passion emerged. Wro occupied her, that pretty body farm. She recognized her reflection in the softening storefront windows, except that something strange was happening to the powder.

Apparently, it was eroding.

It did not melt dramatically, did not make a scene. It weathered dry and stubborn. Lost character. First, the scent of heliotrope and chalk wilted. Later, smoothness failed to persuade. Here and there, a freckle broke free. The skin noted, with surprise, the unevenness of its texture. The blush was planning an evacuation. At the temples, under a plastery haze, a river basin of capillaries was becoming legible. Had this been detected yet? Was it visible in the flash of a disco ball, in the dimness at the bar, in the tropics of afternoon?

A wash could return the surface to unblemished porcelain. No longer having it in her, the woman suspended the standards for the moment. She felt a little sick. Probably the stomach.

The dog-day heat is stuck before the mirror, fingers at the throat — this will not last, things are unsettled inside. Yes. She'll buy ginger, take a break from the tango, go on the BRAT diet, let the hair fall loose. She will apologize to sleep, lure it with satin and lace. The city breathes more deeply and catches cold right away — since the woman drew the curtains, it is much cooler.

(photo credits — polina kuzovkova • david moum • sergio artnoart • vladan vučković

• www.miel-factory.com • yaroslav sumar • seval torun • jose ignacio pompe • susan wilkinson)