It's all mixed up here, and it's more like delirious sleep than memory. But he's a memory, he's a past, he's here now. It's like looking through the glasses at the same time close and they put. Death and childhood go hand in hand. Ragged Okujawa Bulat with a poor Russian guitar, axerkovsky Isaiah, writer on the way, Grażyna, whose body is not enough to call her Grażyna, drunk mailman, lame Bartek, cat and grandfather, Mr Gerber, who teaches history and takes pictures of naked women, Daniel Charms, who died of starvation, Buła, who hanged himself, a lonely old man with no savings. Everyone spins in a dizzy dance macabre of death, which is the course of life. In Grochów, Brno, Saska Kępa, Galician town where the languages were longer than the streets, and the whispers were louder than the bells in the church, in Pinsk, in Kiev, in Central Eastern Europe. Why order it anyway?