I walk down Amsterdam roads
The soft rain tickles my face and I struggle to keep my hoody on as my fingers slowly freeze.
I got obsessed with this city's windows
Anonymous works of art exhibited for no reason
For no audience
So I collect them as my Dad used to do with everything that amused him.
I give up very early
My destination seems way too far and unknown to my unease mind
No patience these days
Instead I enter the only empty place with available and solitary tables.
A small cinema that features a Kaufman dedicated program and promise nothing more than average coffee.
So I sit down after small talk with the guy behind the counter
And I give a second chance to "M train"
A book that hasn't captured my attention yet.
Patti talks about her daily life, her cats and her very own spots to write.
She mentions writing about "nothing" when clearly she has nothing to write about.
It makes me feel lonely
It makes me feel she is lonely.
I recognize the urge for words
When writing seems to be the only thing that will never leave us
But sometimes we can not seem to find it either.
So she speaks of sadness
Although never mentioning the word.
I don't enjoy this book, but I would never doubt it's powers of companionship
What do I need to fill this emptiness?
Should I light a candle to a saint?
Should I say my prayers?
Invocate?


But today
There was this glimpse of beauty:
When some of your empty spaces are filled with just a page of a book
It mustn't be hard to fill at all...

"-You have misplaced joy- he said without hesitation -without joy we are as dead-
-How do I find it again?
-Find those who have it and bathe in their perfection."