My friend has a tiny apartment. It’s hot at night with the two of us here in this small space, and I can’t get to sleep. I’m tossing and turning every few minutes and I glance over to see if I have disturbed her sleep, but it doesn’t seem like it. That small oval of her face is a still mask in sleep. My friend lives on the fourteenth floor. She keeps a small window open to keep the temperature bearable. From it I can hear those big city sounds. Cars going by as if was rush hour still, and there’s some metallic screeching from the train station - probably some sort of maintenance. There are sirens going on in the distance, the fire brigade rushing to some fiery destination. Sometime during my sleepless night, I rise to drink a glass of water. I peer through the gap in the curtain. In the opposite building there are hundreds of windows, most of them black and unmoving, but in three or four there are TVs going. On a balcony a middle aged middle eastern man is smoking, still as a statue. Behind that building, in disappearing detail, is Stockholm.