A single, white room, a blue tent inside, where two men share a relationship for which there are no words. Boban and Boris live within a set of almost identical abandoned bungalows, in the midst of stray donkeys, plastic bottles and red berries; reed beds, tall trees and transient workers. Someone else enters this secluded space and its patterns are disturbed. The world outside arrives and brings stories of other times, of cities to the north and south, of how something is made. New bonds form and old ones shift. Love can be fragile when not given a name. No, don’t call me ‘comrade’. What should I call you, then?