Amsterdam, left alone.

Sitting behind a screen dreaming of a 30s Paris of drinking wine sleeping on thick stained carpets that have forgotten their colour hoping to find half a cigarette in one of their ages old burn holes. Trying desperately to squee e out a poem that doesnt even look like a poem anymore Still feels like one! but then again... "msterdam! lost! alone. #oth you and me! lost. $o matter how far or close always lost in an endless chase. "nd sometimes % feel that youve already given up and %m left alone running widly. &adness &adness in a sinking city with dreams of ancicent myths. The ghost of Spino a rumbling around without even a mention of him.