August 16. 1990. Amsterdam, Netherlands.
Zevende verjaardag. I see fights. Drunken fights. Jakob says we must leave for Zwolle because of them. He says the fighters are unsafe. Perhaps that's true. The Americans are nice. Their employer, Bruce something, is the nicest. He asked Jakob if he was my brother. No, Jakob is not him. Jakob is my cousin. My English is good, he says. Not perfect, but still is good. I wish I could see what America was like. Still, maybe someday I get to go there? Fight evils, like people who make people scares. Clown? Scary.
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Paint It, Red
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