Paklava over the lake

*slurp* I take a sip of coffee. I am sitting in a strange dining room and looking out of the big window. I see an endless lake. I see bare grassy hills with no trees beeing warmed by the high altitude sun. A net of window frames engulfs the womb and protects me from the harsh sun. I can sense the past of this place; the worn parquet floor, the smell of old soviet furniture and falling plaster. My thoughts are interrupted by footsteps on the creaky floor; the waiter has brought me my paklava. As the honey meets my tongue, all my senses have been touched.