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It rains here as often as I try not to smoke and it’s still not enough. Fliers become paper mached to the telephone poles and I never get home with dry socks. However, despite the melancholy atmosphere, this place…Capitol Hill has become my muse.
But truthfully, that isn’t what I feel like talking about.
There’s this guy, (isn’t there always…?) who I’ve decided has permanently branded my cerebral cortex. Everything I once knew how to do, I don’t anymore, and all I have memorized now is how to be irrevocably in love with him. The only inspiration I get out of this buzzing city is due to the thought that possibly, one day soon, this place might also be his muse.
And so I wait. Under street lamps, in photo booths, at parties, in bookstores…and I write down every place I want you see.
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