Junkie in love

I am not a traditional junkie, I don’t spout heroin or junk into my body, but in Amsterdam I walk around and am mistaken for one, walking the streets of the city as I do looking for words, scrawny. Somewhat furtive and with a vague sense of purpose, quickly & head down scouring the ground. On buildings and billboards, through windows, on signposts, graffiti, stickers at intersections, in trees, blown along, collected in drifts of leaves, looking looking for lines of text. There’s one lying back there along the train tracks. Discarded turn of phrase, abandoned sentence, lone verb. Loping quickly along buildings tight around the corner across water something beckons. But what are junkies actually looking for, have you wondered, small parcels, money, things to inject or smoke. See them inspecting discarded litter, strewn bits of paper, empty cans, it must be love. What I’m looking for are verbage and words, ideas, just as desperate,

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