The fog of San Francisco is different, it is not like this one. It is a live fog, it breathes like fire, inhales and then rolls further down the hills until itn crashes like a wave sending out spurts of tentacles in a silvery cascade.
This fog, this Amsterdam fog, is not the same. It is the already low-hanging sky hanging closer to the ground. From these windows the yellow cranes are more memories than sights. When you cannot see past a window, that’s where you look. The rollercoaster tracks of the window-washers cart become gunmetal snakes, sneaking along the top of buildings below me.