In my lair.......
Cars pass five feet from the walls of my room, but they can't get in. Art tools litter the floor. A guest once had a leg amputated from gangrene following a nasty stab with one of my pens( I leave it to the reader to determine which instrument....). Bowls and cups suggest the past presence of Sapporo Ramen and the current presence of cheap French wine, and the chopsticks always wander alone underfoot. Vintage british buttondowns and slimfit Wranglers compete viciously for floorspace. Preliminary analysis of their dispersal pattern: they were hastily cast off by someone in a highly inebriated state, in an obvious rush to place his tongue on someplace warm and wet. Yes, I'll admit there's a large amount of naked flesh to be seen here, but I'm never impolite enough to allow it to be only myself- the beautiful ones land on my bed with an artist's grace that belies the frenzied sweaty fucking that the walls then absorb. The Skatalites and The Upsetters take the stage here in the morning, the Dead Boys tear thru the afternoon, and Byrne and his Talking Heads guide the room fitfully into night. This is no place for dragons....devils and revolutionary hearts however, have free licence to stay as long as they want and do as much damage as they need. Empty shot of jager and a used condom hold court from the bookshelf, watching over Marx and Burroughs and Jean-Paul's lazy eye, no blinds, no time, sheets on the walls plastered with shots from a Tokyo scooter run. Light, diffuse and always warm. This is all to say, my dears: come and visit.