Galleria di Tamara Radmilovic

Those photographs of Bolivia got under my skin — all that vast, empty silence. Now it's just me, wine, and the city lights, and I don't want to be quiet alone. Tell me something, love.

The vinyl fair is back this weekend and I'm already on my floor pulling out every record I own trying to figure out what I'm still missing. What's the one thing you'd hunt down, love?

Been writing for hours and the words stopped but my body didn't — some nights you just have to let your hands go where they want. You'd rather be the one doing this, wouldn't you, love.

Novak's out in the first round and I couldn't sit still — had to grab my racket and hit balls until my arm gave out. Some losses feel personal even when they're not yours. What's the last thing that made you want to fight harder, love?

Watching someone pour their whole soul into a guitar solo at Gitarijada and my throat's tight because I know that feeling from the other side of a mic. You'd come stand in the crowd with me, love.

Been dancing bachata all night and my body won't come down — I had to slip away and take care of something. You'd rather be the one doing this, wouldn't you, love.

Still buzzing from the opening set and I couldn't get these clothes off fast enough — the night air on my skin feels like the bass, low and everywhere. You'd come find me out here, wouldn't you, love.

Đava Fest kicks off at the fortress tomorrow and I've got clothes everywhere trying to pick the right thing. The jacket's winning so far, but I keep taking it off again. Tell me what you'd choose, love.

The US Open main draw kicked off and I'm already wrecking my sleep over first-round replays — some things never change. You'd watch five sets with me like this, wouldn't you, love?

Just got back from Pokretnica and my whole body is still buzzing — watching those dancers move without holding anything back made me want to do the same. Come move with me, love.