Tallinn, Estonia

Storytelling from the mansion. Malbec wine not Mulberry tonight. The Estonian way of remembering. A timeline that starts with selective memory and ends with an ice skating rink a top Russian aircraft bombs. March 9, 1944.

Outside of the castle walls the tram runs to the harbor. Encrusted oil tankers sit on rail ties. Silver crows blend in with the sky. We get off at the end of the line. There aren't any syringes in the ground, only open manholes that look like Andy Goldsworty projects. A pair of
wool socks hang on a squatters clotheline and the ocean whips cold at our pink noses. My camera dies from the cold and we make it to an abandoned tower. A concrete and rebar staircase spirals up through wounded pigeons and utter blackness. 5 stories later I etch into exposed pipe an insignia of sorts. If it wasn't so dark I could see to the base of the crushed tower due to the center of every floor being punctured by large chunks of metal.

I can't believe I'm here. Walking into the structure I could picture a piece of rebar falling into my skull. Or a bullet from a squatter javelling into my jaw. Or nothing. Probably nothing. Estonia has a feeling of nothing. Like recovery from a timeline that starts at no place specifically.