They’re tearing down the old printing house on Tsarigradsko to build another of those glass pharmacies where the rent must be paid in euros, not lev. I walked past yesterday and a Roma boy, couldn’t have been more than ten, was kicking at the rubble like it owed him something. The union says ten workers got "redeployed" — that’s the word they use now when they mean fired. My professor keeps telling us journalism is evolving, like it’s some kind of app update, while the printers who gave us news for forty years can’t even afford the bus fare to argue. The last edition came out with a typo in the headline: “Bulgaria Moves Forward.” I read it six times trying to believe it. You can’t print poetry on a screen that keeps refreshing.
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