Diary

In this cafe in the Flatiron district I go to, the baristas seem especially delighted when I order an espresso drink, like a macchiato, as if they get a chance to prepare a serious coffee drink, since most of the people around me have iced lates.

A day of lethargy, of failure to write, of grief.

So many bare walls in these photographs…

Altitude on Wykoff is closed, forever! Hartbreakers shut down a couple months ago too.

Xiaolin shadow boxer balanced on a bamboo stalk.

The third decade of the twenty-first century, and there’s still a red squiggly line under “Xiaolin.”

What was that smell in the University Center?

A man stretched out on the subway bench, leaning against the gangway wall, feet resting on the metal banister, phone in hand.

Commitment is blasting reggae.

The southerly light on the clocktower in downtown Brooklyn: so pleasant.

Two ambulances with their lights flashing were parked outside of the cafe. No one around looked like they needed help. A couple hours later, a police car was in the same place, its lights also flashing.

Publishers Weekly reports that “more than half of the people buying YA books today are over 18 years old—and the majority of those buyers are between 30 and 44 years old. […] The vast majority—78%—of YA buyers over 18 are specifically purchasing YA books with the intention of reading them themselves.” Today I finished reading a pulp novel, a Lionel White noir, that was definitely meant for boys. But I dunno, the pulps just have a certain energy.