warsaw, summer of 2k19. meshikhte runs around reciting yiddish poetry, smoking menthol cigarettes, having conversations about philosemitism, eating świderki and drinking plum beer.

the bane of her existence is social anxiety, low self-image, fear of wasting time, and never having kissed.

the warsaw journals smell like vistula barbecues, birch vodka, take-out pierogi, damp hallways, wooden ceilings, the milky purple of early mornings, wind from a bike.

they sound like krakowskie przedmieście on a wednesday afternoon, tk maxx airconditioning, shabes tishn, "toxic" played from a phone at a bar, loud laughter.

they feel like self-discovery, creeping sadness, languid desire, determination, vegan sushi, history captured in marble and concrete.