Early morning. Looks like it's still a weekend. A cold March breeze blowing from the half-open window. The curtains are barely drawn. You can see a panel building outside. There is a large man in a down jacket draped over his naked body is smoking on the balcony. A muddy glasses of dry white wine unfinished yesterday are standing on the windowsill, and all your clothes lying on the floor. Dust is floating in the sun. You admiring the goosebumps on the skin of the person lying next to you. You have never been here before and you already know that you will never be in this bed again. But you are not sad. Somehow you feel good, almost as good as listening to Roota's mix for 5/8: radio
