VIII London, England 2011

Back in London I fall onto the bed, exhausted. My friend does not allow me to stay, forcing me to leave to town every morning at eight. Probably this saves me.


I try to think of other things, I try not to listen music. My perception has become extra-sensitive—at night I smell the toothpaste from the bathroom. On a street, passing by, I see Aliide and Zara entering a shop.

            Coffee in the mornings, newspapers piled on the floor, the crackling sound of BBC Radio4. It sounds solacing. Lunch at Sheekeys – life is a feast dipped into vinegar sauce.


I buy myself an orange bow tie from gentlemen’s street. I recognize shop assistant having a Polish accent, and eventually speak Polish to her. She becomes agitated, and tells me she has escaped Poland and is hiding here from her boyfriend. “Do you have anywhere to stay in London?” she asks. “If not, you can always stay at my place.”

            “You know what, I am just writing an opera about you,” I think to myself.


But then I say nothing.

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