The Amstel. Christ. Kilner jars full of fireflies on redbrick windowsills. Hormone therapy. Jesus. Angel boys from Europe trailing around behind me wondering - and not caring - what the hell is in my pants. Cold morning breezes on scarred chest tissue and needle puncture marks. Rows and rows of bicycles and a fluttering pink scarf in the wind. Roaring screams and sexless smiles cold split knuckles and nonchalant breath.