Loud music screeching in my ears.

No people, but here and there I need to dodge a big delivery van creeping up from behind. I don’t hear them coming. My eyes barely notice them. My vision is too overcrowded with images from the past, most sour, some sweet, to notice anything except where to put my feet. If I keep doing this one of them is going to hit me some day. Would be bruised a bit. Am not Anton Yelchin. Would survive.

The streets are empty, the shops are closed. Here and there you see homeless people stock up on beer in a supermarket that opens at 6 am.

This isn’t your preferred way of spending a Saturday morning. You’re supposed to be in bed with a long-legged brunette, preferably an inch or two taller than you are. It makes it easier to drown in her. You’re supposed to be drinking her, every warm drop of her.

You wonder why Bratislava is such a ghost town. Has Croatia become a Slovak enclave over the summer? Croatia is to Slovakia what Mallorca is to Germany.

Slovaks don’t like things to be too different. Croatia is like Slovakia, but with a coastline. The heart and soul of Slovakia is an eternal set of repeating stereotypes. They’re sort of content like that. Not happy, but sort of content. Anyone with warm blood leaves this country eventually. Bolts out the door and hardly looks back, except with wry humor and to visit a babka (grandma) who’s ill.

I know how I washed up here. I know I will have to stay here.

I have about 15 years to plan where my real home is going to be in this world.