Carefree. Ennui. Boredom. Passionate. Fiery. Explorative. Unbusy.
Perhaps these are the words that describe the death of summer 2011. The fleeting, evanescent breaths of air we took together. The sunsets that we peered at from afar and the Film Cafe which saw its last breaths. Bryant Park visits that inspired the Benny undercover Kennifer reference. Oh those three days we made face time with the library was the hardest we worked so diligently and so quietly. The Astor Place supermarket where we spotted the worker later in Kinokinuya Bookstore cafe. Of course the wonderous elevator that wouldn't arrive fast enough and the moss we put in our mouth three times in a week. Perhaps the hom-yee is more ho-sick. The burning desire for iced coffee and an alarmed decision to stay away from cream, inspired by the deadly search for a bathroom on the night Diana and Brandon made edifying pizza because we were sure that after eating we would get mugged. The light, crispy footsteps on the Queens Plaza mall like it was no one's business. Surely the terrific 6.25$ meal applied after spending a good ten minutes looking for non-fatty foods. The turn of events down Lexington Avenue when we crashed Little Brown's chocolate for an expensiveass latte and awesome cookie. The forgetting of Israel who loved his job but hated the permanent soundtrack he has to play in the cafe every damn day. The counterculture of leaving behind ex friends and trollers who belong in the cess pool because there was no way to unclog this clog. Friends peel back their layers even when you demanded the distance I admitted my deafening closeness. Not to mention though playing your song ruined my throat but I can't say that Irene doesn't love you enough after that first time you rocked Pete's. Such fear you had concerning your ID we should have brought our passports, Green cards, death certificates, and birth certificates. Maybe the bartender at R-Bar should back off and stop being a little bitch. Whatever it was, I sure wish your civil service uncle gives me a Cadillac on a whim. Don't say the west terrace of 7th floor bridge meetups were silly because the occasion of songwriting surpasses any value. The heart cannot be quantified. The talent cannot be measured by a microphone or Ableton Live. Perhaps the dismantling of your icosahedron on a shitty day when I feel like dying will reveal to me what is inside your handmade gift (It still sounds like a guitar pick to me). It is unnatural that we forgot about Beacon's closet and the two hours we spent loitering Williamsburg. There is no stranger problem with finding the Coffee Foundary because it has closed down fool! Perhaps we can hit up the High Line again with small Tiff and my nine-months-remaining homeboi Joe. Maybe Chelsea Market will offer generous A.C. for another sweaty day and a brownie to top it off. How sad that we don't have enough time to read the books we want to and how terrible Bluestockings turned out to be. But we have yet to finish Murakami's The Elephant Vanishes and I to watch Pi.
Priceless. These moments need no Mastercard and they certainly need nothing short of smiles and occasional reflection.
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