That’s the way it is over here. Piles of meter long beech logs. Cigarette (smoke) inside, smoked foods scented haze over the shack. A heater, a battery-powered radio, crates of beer and flies. Snoozing in the shadow. Leave a message at the beep. A creek down below, but there’s no service. No messages, no year 2020. That’s me – said to the dog. Takes a sip of beer. That’s the way I am. Fucking Bieszczady. Well, one more day. They stand together. Tomorrow I parade. That’s me. A thousand words thrown into space. One more day and I’ll live. That’s the sound of their silence.