
We are on another planet. Or is it the future? Or is it a nightmare? Too much sun, striking too much metal. In the back of the taxi we hold onto each other and find comfort in small things: the cab is yellow, with plastic seats that burn the backs of our thighs; the croissants too doughy, too sweet; and a woman driver in the next lane has got sunglasses just like mine.
On the 37th floor of a 'luxury tower' we find our Croatian friend. It's been almost two decades since we've last seen each other, in her country that smelled of rosemary and sea salt. I dive into that world of gentler memory, a refuge now from the glare of this metropolis. I long for a place where you see more green than gray. Where the ground is not sparkling and suspended. Where you walk to the sea, not fall into it.

Ooooh, that drop. That concrete. That taxi. it's all true folks...
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