I am a foreigner in the city I call home.
This London is lonely to me. This London is empty.
Empty of all the things that formed the fabric of my life, when it deserved being called home.
No more friends, no more work.
I suppose it is the price one has to pay to become a citizen of the world.
Uprooted. At home everywhere and yet a passenger only.
In the part of the city covered with Burka-women and skinhead men, I am just another Londoner, in my Viennese dress and my Brazilian shoes.