I live in a city that is said to have no heart. I’m cycling along the almost empty streets on a wet and rainy winter afternoon. I try to get lost.


















I stumble upon a windmill without wings. I try to estimate its age; I guess that it’s at least a couple of hundred years old. It’s in a slow decay. There’s moss on the walls, sowthistles growing on the window stills. Small, grimy windows with blue wooden frames.









There is no explanatory plaque, no date, no title. A warning sign of a frozen construction works and a poster for a restoration plan. Some telephone numbers, some dog shit by the door. I take a walk around the building.

























On the eastern wall, almost all of the bricks are black. I touch one of them, and the ashes leave a dark stain on my fingers. I wonder whether the smoke traces were left there on purpose or They just couldn’t get them out. I stand by the wall for some time. It is intense; it feels so as if it hums with the denseness of air around it, affecting my brain, causing fear and anxiety similarly like infra-sound at the sea.












I can even smell the scent of the ash as I go away.









I get lost some more.





















They are turning on the street lights; dark puffy cumulus clouds are moving fast from the west.




I find a bench in the park and light up a cigarette.




I feel like I shouldn’t be here after dark.





The park reminds me of one of my dream places, a deja-vu agora or a cemetery: a place of the void, absurd and disorientation. Everything here is wet and shiny. Giant marble numbers scattered on the carpet-green grass:









and 3.


An explanatory plaque and soppy black rabbits with scared, glass-like eyes.


“Were you blonde”? “Something’s wrong”. “I wonder who I will be”…


“I only wish they would go somewhere”.
























I find my way back without a map; I play a game of pretending that there are no satellites and I’m a renaissance explorer, navigating with the powder of sympathy. I am thinking that there is no place for the unintended, no place for longing in this city. A giant micro scheme gravestone that is promptly deleting all the tumours and errors. Yet as I ride through the complexly over-crossing, narrow bike roads to the destination I pretend to call home, I believe I still feel the intenseness of the scent from the black wall.