“but when the wind is in your hair you laugh like a little girl.”

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(somewhere off flatbush avenue,brooklyn. photo by me.)

songs for tuesday evening/wednesday morning: stay young, go dancing, death cab for cutie; september, the shins; an innocent fiction, erin mckeown; night of the living dead, tilly and the wall; you and me and the moon, the magnetic fields.

It’s almost 12.30 am at the Starbucks on Astor Place. I adore this city for its insomniacs and night owls and nonsensicals and the places that stay open to enable it all. I was walking on the Lower East Side, carrying a pile of labor anthologies and listening to the Magnetic Fields, and I couldn’t seem to make myself turn towards the subway and go home.  I  can’t afford to ignore the monsters when they start feeling real enough again to write. It’s like a fucking rabbit hole sometimes, but you have to go down. (And by you, I mean me.)

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