Her beauty is pure.

Amsterdam,

I might not wake to the whisper of gentle surf and palm tree leaves rustling in a warm breeze anymore, no Miss Endu still asleep and while enjoying her dream world clinging her arms and legs around my body, a bit like the sucking arms of an octopus, sort of hard to unwrap but giving me a strange sense of comfort and unknown Deja Vu...

No getting up on my elbows and watching her dark Asian eyes following a dream in which I, by all probability, play a major role, freed from all deception and in no hurry, no stress to get up early and make it to that long queue of foreign tourists all lining to see the world famous Achterhuis on the Amsterdam Prinsengracht...the poor story of that Jewish girl who kept a emotional and moving Tagesbuch that has drawn people from all over the place...

But that part of this blog story is a real part once again of my existence here in good old Mokum, tying my battered old suitcase to the back of my rusty old Giant ATB and cycle the ten minutes or so to the Anne Frank Huis, sell my games and make plenty of dough so I can once again return to far-away realms so alien to my own but drawing me there with as much force as all these throngs of different nationalities to my home city, humanity from all parts of Mother Earth...

After twenty-five years of selling Mandalas outisde the Numero Uno tourist hot spot of Amsterdam I feel freed of motivation, freed of any type of deception, just wanna sit here and continue the monotony of my life...

Back to my memories, back to Thailand: nudging her shoulder and telling her to wake up, get a shower and prepare for another day on an Asian beach, under a hot Thai sun...after all her beauty is pure