Bob Dylan on the F train, and the remains of red wine on your lips in the late morning. Send him your book, she said, he's a really good critic.
You have to show it to someone, you know.
I scribble notes in the underground:
"The days pass in freezing sunshine and late night ramblings; what little money there is slowly builds piles in your corners, and you sleep with hope.
For one, short moment, everything is exactly as you hoped your entire life would be.
You don't know what to do with that.
You decide to smile."
(and the moment I wrote it, I knew it was true.)
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