I'm sitting in my hotel room, on 11th street, between 6th and 5th ave, in Greenwich Village, listening to Andrew Bird, feeling that American Gothic spirit course through my tiny fragile veins, along with the box of cheep white wine I took home from my sister's place in Brooklyn. I promised her I wouldn't drink it on the train, but at a point I panicked and jumped out for god knows what reason on the wrong stop, where the train is elevated, and no other train bound for at least a half an hour. I met a nice man who kept me company at midnight, being that I was a bit nervous at this particular shady spot, and in trade I gave him a few sips of my wine and told him all about Minneapolis and directing movies. He gave me his email address on a card, which I won't use for anything more than a bookmark for my new book "We Always Lived In The Castle", which will force a creeping smile over my wobbly lips when I look at it and remember people are pretty decent no matter where you are if you offer them booze. Thankyou forever Patrick wherever you are, good luck with your dreams, keep holding your breath darling and don't stop protecting young tourists lost on the subway at night.
Since it is my last night in this fetid hotel, I have decided not to crack the window when I smoke, as it is far too nordic feeling outside and that is not the particular romantic history I am here to channel tonight. I want the lamp shade and the sheets to smell of something sinister tomorrow when the housekeeping comes to clean my abandoned room at noon sharp.