Three things make a place my home: it's where i can sing, where i can cry and one more i can't remember right now. Put the blame on the wine or on myself. Here i have sung some songs, not as passionately as at my two previous real homes. But it seems i can't cry here. So i guess this is the first time i live somewhere is not my home. Amsterdam quickly became my home, my perfect space on Earth, just for me. But here, something is just not right. Probably i'm not right, as always. But that's something that shouldn't matter at home, i think.
And here i am tonight, blessly alone, with a cup of white wine (i bought specially for the occasion), fries and jazz, old friend i didn't visit for ages). Writing this black-wallpapered blog i've always related to home. And wondering, just dreaming awake, other lives, other states. My eternal being.
I've been researching 30's (like for the past 20 minutes, to be accurate). And i like them, i think. Some mystery about them, some shadow and smartness. Errol Flyn, Bette Davies, Fred and Ginger. I would have paid the 5 war years for that decade.
Jazz, dresses and wine. Keep dreaming, darling. It's all there is.