Hotel Peculiar

Brooklyn, blazing Sunday morning. A walk to the expensive Japanese/French cafe where I sit inside and probably should be outside. Pouring words into a block of paper when I should be pouring them elsewhere, into a place where they are more “useful” and visible. I don’t even know what these things mean. I am not…

Good evening from the heart of the city. I should be asleep but I’m not. Consider this a recurring theme.