r = 28, σ = 10, b = 8/3

"a conversation piece they called it, but that night it dueled lazily in the foreground with the tangle of limbs and sweat and greedy thrusts beyond. her, an expert in dream-slow close-ups, curled fingers roundly about the sheets, purring rhythmically. he, dancing his mess over her, taking in god-hot flash bursts of frenzy. her mother purchased the bead curtain in spain, but this was no time for such a discussion as their physiological equiposes made waves behind the slipshod veneer. i had only wanted to grab a drink in the kitchen, but this meat-opera presented such an intriguing view-scape, something intruders should never be privy to, but then again, i've always had a thing for bead curtains."

i sat on the roofgarden flipping through old notebooks, noticing i've had too many torn out pages lately. i wondered where my days had gone. it's addictive, this narcotic of ennui that resides somewhere between wakelessness and inertia - swimming in cheap beer - this melancholy which punctuates a day that resembles the last one, and i imagine, the one to come.

i want to be that person i only read about in novels. the one with an edge and a charm and a few other things i can't quite pin down. he goes by many psychoses and many talents depending on the author's mood. he laughs deep inside himself and swings manically from flowerynight exstaties to squalid binges.

the rent's due in a few days, and i'm a bit underwater. feeling cramped, i decided to hop on my bicycle to hit the cafe. concrete. brick. traveling through my bushwick neighborhood, it was apparent this city has beaten the ever-loving crap out of nature. the backdrop: buildings that kiss the sky, vying to be the citygod of cities, the mother metropolis, where even the parks seem like a geometric afterthought devoid of secrets. i rode past the galaxy beauty shop, the endless bodegas, chinese restaurants, too; the jamaican spot hawking belt buckles, perfume, mobile phone accesories, and then there's the quick pharmacy, the park to the left, kids running, men playing dominoes on the sidewalk, two girls cooking sausage on a metal shopping cart. as i neared the factories and warehouses, and it's dark now, the concrete walls looked more sinister with their barbed wire tops. a vintage clothing store. more concrete walls and barbed wire, a closed circuit television camera situated on top, but look, a gorgeous girl in a summer dress stops to light a cigarette (cinematic pose), silhouetted by the razor wire and a self-conscious concrete wall, as i turned the corner.

the cafe was straight ahead, bounded by an organic foodstore and an art gallery, bicycles and people adorned this little haven. i grabbed a coffee and sat down to write in this converted warehouse, now renting videos and selling tea and coffee. the guy next to me was working on a silk screen of a royal foot guard. the past seemed to fluctuate in his work. i took a deep breath and dove into the black abyss.

after a couple of hours in the typehole, i left. upon returning to my building i felt that eerie feeling of serendipity. it came in the form of a german jeans phashon campaign poster. "wanted" the sign read, "workers," so i dialed "andreas," and he told me shooting would commence friday in brooklyn, and that he needed help with equipment and models, whatnot.

that busboy gig at the Chicken Shack will have to wait a couple days.