WILLIAMSBURG BRIDGE.

It’s been so long since the last time I wrote something here. A lot of water has passed under the bridge. There’s so much that’s changed and it’s so complicated to explain that I’m not even gonna make the faintest attempt of trying to do so.

I came back from New York a week ago. I arrived a Monday morning, seven days ago.
I love the number seven. I was born on the seventh of June. Seven and six.

I feel cartoonish today. I’ve said this to a couple of people throughout the day. It’s not exactly a bad thing though. I’m fully aware that it might very much not be THE most flattering feeling, but cartoonish is still something I can work with.
I’m guessing the free time has given me far too much space to reflect on my life. And I truly need a reasonably more substantial and self-less topic to dig on. Otherwise I’ll die.

Have you ever asked yourself the plain but uncanny question - “What am I doing?” I’ve been doing it so a lot more often than I either should or should have to.

I didn’t like New York. I was… left uncertain. I swear I’m never having expectations regarding a city again in my life.
I can’t complain. I was in an attempt of a ragged (but so much fun) old marriage, with a wonderful, sexy, lively young girl, who happens to be one of my best friends for three weeks. Honney I’m home! And all that. She is amazing and I don’t know how to thank her enough for taking me under her roof and sharing hummus and screwdrivers with me.

“And I am doing nothing wrong
Riding in your car
Your radio playing
We sing up to the eighth floor
A rooftop, in Manhattan
One in the morning
When you said something
That I've never forgotten”


I felt alive. Sometimes a lot. I was unaware and vulnerable, and old and wide-eyed. I saw so many people, and even had a blast. I urged something more. I missed being somewhere else. All the sudden I’m home.

I should be trying to figure out how to commence writing and essay in which I connect the work of a contemporary designer to Paleolithical art. I can’t hold my enthusiasm.
When did I became so spacey? Eventually, I might be able to focuse. Let’s not bring our hopes down.

It’s addictive. Is like painkillers. It’s like its being fed your guts and leaves you with and empty thorax where you can raise an ant farm. Or a centipede farm.

There’s a silver screen on my night window and I furrow poorly written that’s enough I’m going mad. It’s alright. Sanity is highly overrated. How about if I prepare a round of cocoa-milk for myself and watch another episode of some random series I haven’t seen before?