I was thinking about something today: The stupid thing about hearts drawn in the sand is that they come with an expiration date built in. One wave. A little wind. Some distracted child. A dog with no artistic sensitivity...

Some days you leave the house because you have somewhere to be. An appointment. A job. A woman who will probably make an already complicated life even more of a mess. And then there are days when you leave simply because you no longer want to stay where you are. That was one of those days...

A small amusement park glowed behind me, and ahead there was only an empty sea. Not a postcard beach, but a nearly forgotten seaside town, its chairs lined up like soldiers waiting for an order that would not come again that night.

A double exposure, a filthy mirror, and the bastard voice that celebrates every failure. A reckoning with fear, shame, and the choice to change the ending.

Four musicians, a church, a few beers, and the stubborn old soul of rock. A black-and-white story about friendship, time, and making noise without asking permission.

Batumi after sunset: neon, rain, casinos, workers, stray dogs, and every illusion still available late into the night.

Behind the dog was the sea. Not the one in the brochures. The real one. Cold, wide, indifferent, and full of people doing nothing particularly useful. After a month in Batumi, I had come to understand that the sea had at least two lives. In the first, it was a view...

Batumi’s dogs occupied sidewalks, stairways, and stone beaches without knowing they were strays—a free presence inside a city busy selling and rebuilding itself.

Then I turned toward the market. The strawberries were there. Red. Glossy. Arranged in small crates with the precision we use when trying to convince someone that nature has a marketing department. Beside them were oranges, apples, tomatoes, bananas, herbs, flowers, and enough plastic to ensure that at least the packaging would outlive the customer. The strawberries, on the other hand, were in a hurry...

After a month in Batumi, monuments give way to bus stops, grocery bags, benches, and the ordinary gestures through which a city finally becomes real.