Art and Dirt

So I looked down on time spent, in the form of paper and ink. It was a painful moment of clarity to see a work of "Art" destroyed.

"This is the first song to your mix tape, and it's short just like your temper."

I wonder how many of my notes made it into loving hearts and backpacks and wallets. To stay there as a reminder. Like a five-year-old collecting shells on the beach.

And I wonder how many are torn to pieces and have become part of the dirt of the shining city.

Either is just fine. Now that I think about it.

New York is made alive by passion. By the artists. By the journeymen. The refugee. The fact that somewhere, someone might be walking with my letters underfoot is somewhat poetic, in a sense. Streets paved with passion.

I lost 50 Dollars playing poker online.

I'll lose another 50 more before I learn my lesson.

"I gotta 20 dollar bill, that says noone's ever seen you without makeup. Your always made up."

Patience. Patience.

I called A to blow off steam yesterday. If she doesn't call me back. I'll be a little sad.

"Something golden like the afternoons we used to spend, before you got too cool."

This entry feels self-indulgent. If I was a critic. Well... I'd be critical of it.

- N