Seven Windows Fronting the Courtyard of Gundulić Street

A long-legged girl sprawled on an old-fashioned sofa carelessly roams through the pages of a rediscovered book. The fatigued smell about her blends with the damp of the room from which I take down the notes of helplessness and lust. The whiteness of the body shivers, hanging on the quivering thread of a renewed reading. The borderline between remembering and discovering becomes invisible: only a row of domestic ants and the sprinkled window-pane recalls the worn out pages of the chronicle from which I came right now, on 7 July 1992.