in krakow the sky is a flat hand, pressed to the rooftops, spread long and simple, pointing to something. light is the explosion of particles as they drift round and upwards, dance an eleborate dance, with many steps. a pigeon rests at the edge of a rooftop, spreads its wings and snow falls. an old man hacks the ice from the pavement in a simple and repetitive motion, his back a curve that glances the day. an old woman turns to me, her moustached face, her mole, her filled and awkward jacket squat to the floor, even with the coldness of things. there are basements here, filled up with light that is mixed and flickering, there are photographs on walls and we are in the jewish quarter, walking through streets filled up with their own unwanted history. everyday, in the market, a woman sells the same five watches, segemented and broken, and so much of me wants to buy all of them, knot all five to my wrist so that, everywhere, i might be able to tell the delicate and disintegrating time of poland, see the mottled staircase as it descends to a curtain. and we are as close to the heavens as we might ever be, close to the place where this light is created. and here, we can make the most of it. i take a bus to the airport and the extravagance of sun and snow is liquid, is the way things infiltrate my eyes and etch themselves there. i lean my head on the window, back and gentle, a hand on my neck. i lean my head on the window, close my eyes, and think about things.