February 2011
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January 2011
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You’re walking on Broome, it’s five in the morning, you have that last cigarette between your fingertips and you’re contemplating what the hell you’re doing out alone on the street. Your obvious confusion at the meaning of everything reads on your face, garnering looks of concern and curiosity from passerby. You take another drag, the ashes whipping away in the wind, a...
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You have to die a few times before you can really
live.
– Charles Bukowski
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People are strange when you’re a stranger.
– Sputnik Sweetheart, 村上 春樹
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