todd's house in amsterdam was something hudge and symmetrically agonizing, like the plant of an hospital.
the large spaces of the rooms were collapsing into a flagrant light the warmth of his arms, the heat of his sweat, against a costant, high artificial cold.


under his black silk sheets.

the voice of his memories swayed unsteadily around my ears.
the song of a guy that used to promise me love in order to outrage the magic fleer's fate. the escape of identities on one choice solution. a muddy lake of smoky waters against the walls, the windows, the grass climbing on the gate bars. and the forgotten name's boy echoing in my head in a winter night, along the kloveniesburgwal canal.
"that boy is dead" he said "that boy has only existed in your head", "i am not the person you think i am".