The curtains were open. The glass was clean. I just found out there are men who come around and clean it. I bet they wear orange jumpsuits. That's the "in" uniform around here for the working class.

I stared at the houseplants and the coatrack. So this is where he lived now. I stood between two shelves of the ceiling-high library. There were framed portraits. A still-life. Pretty much everything was new. The sun blasted through a cloud, lighting up the living room like it was on stage. I turned and fell into a dream. Fuck, there were even synthesizers playing in the background.

"What are you going to do?" he asked me, "How will you ever find your way back home?"

He thinks it's because of Fitz. At first I was like, "whatever, pass the Camenbert," but then I ended up drinking until four with him trying to convince him otherwise.

His house is a straight line of three floors. On each floor there are one and half rooms. I had to go downstairs to take a piss. The stairs are some narrow, tall ass killers. Don't front by wearing heavy boots like I did, word is bond.

"I think something happened that you're trying to forget," he said to me. I looked up into his eyes and saw kindness, concern.

"It doesn't matter," I said. "Whatever it was. It doesn't fucking touch me."

"I'm sure it's fine. I always had the impression that he's a good chap--harmless, at any rate."

"Don't be so sure!" I blurted out. It's one of many things I said last night that I wish I could take back.

Another was when we were at the hooker's, and I asked, "Will you do the same things you do to a boy to a girl?" She looked at me like I had four heads.

I wanted to pay her the same, or more. In the end it didn't matter because my friend couldn't go through with it. He couldn't stand the bluntness of the whole thing.

He's a good friend because he wants to save me. Only he doesn't know from what.

So instead of saving me we walked down narrow snowy streets carrying orange cinch sack bags from the Supermarket.

He said something, cracked a joke, playfully stretched a metaphor. We strolled onto the Grote Markt and bought tuna steaks. I pointed out a pineapple and he immediately scooped it up. The afternoon was perfect--neat and sweet, like the little mass produced coffee biscuits that come with every glass cup of koffie you buy.

Everything in it's place!--a great holiday!--loads of fun!--but all the while, he believes that my options are running out.

the right blog for amsterdam is anti

ms. phil gets up in the piece