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Sometimes the rushing wind that gushes through the brick corridors and into our home turns into sirens. Sometimes when I’m walking back from the L train I catch a wiff of my own apartment entrance. I think it’s saffron. It smells good when it’s being cooked, but it’s stale reek has permeated the hallway along with animal dander and asbestos or anything that has blown from the city and onto these steps. My landlord has the only garden hose in Williamsburg, he speaks no English. Paul Simon once sang “I’ve come to look for America”. I’ve come to the conclusion that he was actually looking for Jesus, or just an open-faced sandwich. He may have been looking for the best 5 gallon bucket drummer at 3:30 in the morning at Union Square. I came with an expendable dialect to escrete my own personal glory. Unlike Simon I am tall and have no personal connections with art, no backing harmonies, not even a trip to Graceland under my star-studded belt. I’ve come to look for a tostada and the most hand-rolled cigarettes in the world
7:47 PM
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