New Shores says the sign over the entrance. Hard to see in black and white. Everything here is shabby. Even the name of the street sounds like dirt: Potse The word clings to the roof of my mouth, sticks between my teeth like old cheese. The area used to be gay, today it is veiled. I still remember, I lift the camera and attract disapproving glances. Contact lenses, Oriental textiles, the aforesaid other shores and the MobileHouse. Naked trees frame the misery. I did not come back gladly. Stayed standing on the other side of the street, didn’t dare to cross. Didn’t want to gaze through the window. To take a look at the winter suffering.