I fell asleep last night in lantern light, underneath a blanket fort with a belly full of tots and a mouth covered in s'mores. I saw a side of New York that had been hidden in plain sight, but could only be seen through a fresh pair of eyes. I unearthed a trove of treasures I'd forgotten I'd buried, and met a new friend, for the second time. Is there any greater comfort in life than to know that everything old can be new again?

When you lose, don't lose the lesson.

Trumpets sound out Her eminence, followed by the unrolling of a carpet that’s surely red. A young child is ushered forth to scatter Her pretty petaled obscenities as She enters in full regalia, wide astride an elephant. Her suitors are quick to align at the glass palace to bestow kisses upon her lips and cheeks, all eyes on the prize. And as she takes her place at the whale bone throne to accept adoration and plot demise, and while we’ve all donned the Fool’s guise, I can’t help but wonder why people aren’t more concerned about the elephant in the room.

You are not the sum of your good fortunes. You are not the remainder of your losses. We are all shafted, forgotten, downtrodden. And we all answer to the police eventually.

Life does not sit still. I was reminded of this as I poured the pen's ink onto the page in an effort reproduce reality. But reality's a hard thing to pin down. Its contents are always shifting. Even the blank page itself is filled with billions of bouncing molecules just waiting to spring from their prison. And sometimes, when there is no shift, it's up to us to provide the requisite velocity. The method of escape.

I don't have a car anymore and, ordinarily, I wouldn't miss it. But with the Golden State on the dash and PCH memories in the rearview, a little bit of Ice Cream sounds pretty good right now. To songs that leave you feeling good and leaning on the pinewood. And to the Hood Internet for fitting this slab with a fresh new scoop.

Fannie Barnes welcomes Brooklyn with open arms, cradling the poor, abused, illiterate and confused. Tourists shuffle in and play pretend, imagining they can be part of the plan on some spare change and a lazy Sunday. But Brownsville folks are smarter than that - they've seen come and go, and beaten that rap. They themselves are a transitive property, diffusing in and out of the great Urban Strategy, vague memories on the minds of the few that have gotten close enough to care. Its supposed to be good news to see them go, onward and upward I guess, but to where, I don't know. A good day is bottled in a forty ounce glass which shatters with a crash against a gypsy cab. This is how it is when you deal with them Brooklyn Kids.

“Children of the night, we take flight when the city sleeps.” The rooftop speaks. I’d never considered myself one of those rare birds until I stairwayed to heaven and read those words. Dangling ridiculous over Gowanus bay, I was nearly convinced that there was a way. It was “End your life”, which ended discussion,scrawled on the beam my fingers were clutching. There I hung, unfeathered bird, slave to the written word. I sidled back to the front porch of my sanity, admiring the Empire in all its vanity.

Last night went 'fro to 'fro with a subway shaman. Went down in the third round, missed my stop, headed back uptown. Head sprung, mind reflective, Rabbit Hole bound I tried to make the connective. He spoke of the difference between knowledge and truth, he said we're selfish, two hundred proof. In just a few stops he'd broken down the ways of the world. I was at a loss for words. He told me not to worry, he was probably just high. Enlightened to humbled: directions, goodbye.

With respect to Poe, I've never known a heart to tell a tale. There's stories, sure, locked inside. Each pulse is a passport stamp upon a bouncing soul. And like it or not, there's only room for one to take that ride. But one night, side by side, just for a second, I might catch stride. And that'd be good enough.