Magically we make our way through shadows and late-night mysterious corners to unearth that damn post-Yugoslav spirit. "Molim, molim??? ne ma problema!" I shout. Descending through streets, thirsty for exploration, we stumble across late-night crows who??evade??identification. We become sleuths defining untraceable laughs and snooping Belgrade guards. Imprinting snap shots of layering capitalist shopping malls, I rest on a gritty floor from where, in the corner of my eye, Colin slithers on brick walls whose cemented dream falls from mortar gray, oh how gray, disappearing pasts. I whisper romantically to the ground. You are angelic and decrepit beloved Kosovska. You hide from us your interior. Fortified by walls of voyeur, nervous eyes, whose sight tries to distinguish our intruding bodies, you make impressions of a phantasm sitting on the concrete footsteps.??