"Can I get your bottle, please" he said, my childhood friend, standing beside me, as I hold the bag, that contained all the bottles we collected since our last walk to the shop
Sometimes it seems to me, when looking in the eyes of people passing by, they are starring into fires that has long stopped burning
I pick the motive in the middle, like it, it reminds me of opening the drawer, where my granddad kept all the things he didn't know where to put.
I washed my hands and walked back out in the sunlight, back to the table in front of the smokehouse, where she sat... looking at me with my diary open in her hands... "That is some stories there, Frits" She said
Walking up there one early spring afternoon, the crows circling and wind chilling the whole idea of trying to get into the Royal school of Architecture by painting watercolors here
Back many centuries ago the herrings were plenty here, and people would come from afar to fish, buy and sell, celebrate and all the things nobody talked about, but in the small chapel, that was build out here - and is still here.
Some days I wait, as if phones didn't exist, and I couldn't check Facebook and Twitter, just wait, sit and watch the places, take out my watercolors and pass the time
"We swim here, we locals swim here", she said as we walked down to the small place between the rocks... Many years later I paint here