From room 36 in the Night Hotel... 45th and Broadway. We are on the other side of stop signs on Bedford. Live in Times Square for all to see... riding along and below the city streets. We are lovehostage. We're stuck.
Literally bounced off a wall this morning. Only to see you smile. The rest of this foolishness is just me tipping over a rusty bucket and letting everything run down a hill... collecting in cracks and sometimes going off course. I know this probably makes no sense whatsoever to people outside the glass, but right now I'm sitting in this see through room and this is the only way I know to make sense of myself. TrueJetBlue.
We're not getting old, we're just getting vintage. We'll find ourselves in thrift shops and antique stores someday. When was the last time you felt proud of me? Place me in the dollar bin and move on.
I'm dreading the absence of sirens and pitchmen with fliers. A penny for the homeless, a dollar for a slice, and a credit card for the loneliness. Bar tab junkie. Switching flights has become like tapping the syringe to keep things pure. Avoid the flight home. One last shot before we hit the sky. There are two receipts on top of the mini bar to prove I bought everything you've ever said. "Immortality was lost as she put her lips to the (big)apple..." I understand her temptation.
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We will forever be a community of writers asking you to fall in (love) or be taken (hostage.) We only want to make you smile, and encourage you to pick up the pen, or start using those fingers on your keyboard!
