In Poland they call unfiltered coffee Turkish. I don’t know how long this has been going on. My clothes are drying on a white rack by my window in Block 7A. I’m in a small cramped room in New Europe. A concrete grave in a maze of flats. These flats are my patrons. I’ve can’t get a grip. My ears keep ringing. Old receipts clutter my desk and I’m feeling a bit like a rat. I want to tell a story but I can only find beginnings. I am all beginnings. Snowflakes are falling and I still can’t see the future. Behold my muscles and all their friendly neurotransmitters. It’s not what I think but what thinks through me.