Once upon a time the literary anti-hero William S. Burroughs resided at 222 Bowery, because, according to him, it was easy to score junk down the street. Imagine the beats’ creepy godfather banging away on his typewriter and then cutting it up and splicing the words back together to create new narratives to forever obliterate the modern canon. And yes, he loved guns. Check out the artifacts that still reside in the space via Gothamist. http://bit.ly/dPVXkW
Rat scurries across sidewalk in front of posh luxury haberdashery.
This morning I awoke from a dream containing the following elements:
I don’t know what it means.