This. This.
Read me something really beautiful, something Haruki Murakami or Orhan Pamuk, in a wet bench on a cloudy Amsterdam day.
Dam Square was not as noisy as it usually is, but there's still the tram.
The youngsters dressed up in hip clothes and goth make up. The American and Canadian tourists taking pictures everywhere and the Asians busy shopping every last cents of Euro they got.
Read me something really beautiful, something Pablo Neruda or Cesare Pavese, on the edge of a fountain where people threw coins for sweet empty wishes, before I get too old and tired and dissolve into a million molecules.
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