While Buddha keeps asking me about hands, and Wonko wanted to know more about the glove, Christian had some more practical questions. First, he asked, "What are you running through the Moscode now? Are you still using the Arcam as your source, and are you running it through the Arros or the DeVores?"
Last night, I sat down for a bit with Anthony Hamilton and his open road. You're what I want. You're what I need. You touch the deepest part of me. And these loose and tenuous warbling riffs stretched out wide across my windows, parting the curtains and welcoming in the neon lights from the bar on the other side of Monmouth.
For the last couple of days, I've been listening to one special CD from start to finish, and over and over again. I don't want it to ever end. Elizabeth must be sick of it. I'm sorry, Elizabeth. But, no: she's not sick of it because she understands. She knows what this is all about. And when I'm not listening to it, I'm holding onto it tightly, smiling over the lovely cover of sweethearts and peaches, reading the song titles from top to bottom and then from bottom to top. Memorizing the shade of red, imagining her hands putting it all together.
It must have been at Herald Square, where I was transferring onto the B, that I realized JA had left a message on my cell. I couldn't listen to the message below the ground no service down there but the display let me know that the call arrived at 7:58am. Why in the world would John be calling me at 7:58 in the morning? It was now almost 8:30. Shit:
The City was yesterday touched by twenty-seven inches of snow. In the Lower East Side, red, black, and green fire escapes were given pure, white highlights. On Orchard Street, a single figure could possibly be seen trudging through the heavy downfall, an umbrella in one hand, a burning cigarette in the other.