Warsawa

Im sitting on my window sill. It's dark out. The street is lit by the orange light. A block of flats stretches up on the other side of the road. As is much of Warsaw, it is reminiscent of the Soviet era: grey and discolored, with windows set at regular intervals. A tree, its branches right outside my window, bare of leaves.

There is no logical reason it should be beautiful. But it is.