you are cycling. the cobblestones bang beneath your wheels. you swirl out of your way to avoid the tourists crossing the street. they ignore you. a car swirls out of its way to avoid you. you ignore it. it is a hierarchy you do not question.
the tram is crowded with people. a voice over the speaker tells you to move to the front. there will be more room at the front. you try to move. more people appear. where did those people come from? no one else moves. there is no front of the tram. there is no more room.
they are building a new metro line. they have always been building a new metro line. they will always be building a new metro line.
“the air smells like weed,” a visitor tells you. they laugh. you laugh. you are not sure what they are talking about. you change the subject. you forget the subject.
your bike gets stolen. over the course of the next few years, it will appear again at waterlooplein, your train station, three AH-to-go’s, and your front door. every time, you try to get a closer look. every time, it is not your bike at all.
you don’t look at the canals. you don’t look at the water beneath you. you forget about the water beneath you. the bridges are just extensions of the road. don’t all roads have bridges? yes. yes they do.
you could swear you didn’t hear the rain. you could swear you didn’t feel it. but when you get inside again, you are soaking wet.
during the day, you fear the nights. but during the nights, the streets are natrium-lit, the sounds are murmled, directions blur together. the tourists seem less frightning. the tourists are you friends. the tourists were right all along. when morning comes, you don’t speak of the night. you will forget what you do not have to remember.
