Beverly Blvd., West Los Angeles
Woke up at dawn this morning hoping to get a little extra work done but I don’t know if I even wrote a page worth. I imagined myself kicking back in some cool breeze sort of dawn romance and typing away at the new story I’m working on, but no dice.
This cafe feels like some damp dirty prison that keeps it all trapped inside the skull and I think the man selling bagels gave me a dirty look. He suspects something. He knows I’m just using him for his scene and nothing else. I’m not there for his food. I’ve got no interest in his bagels man, and if I wasn’t bound to do so by the unwritten rules I probably wouldn’t be ordering food at all. Just want a cozy place to write that isn’t my apartment.
It’s rare for anything useful to come about back on Hollywood Blvd, where my apartment stands perched like an old bird lost in the redundancy of a hundred-year-old vigil. Once I’m home I’m home and its as if the window to the outside world closes, blowing a last remaining breeze at me towards the bed, that place of doom where all the hope of the day brushes with death, glimmering like candlelight in the black expanse of dreams. The great triumph is that come the dawn, it has always survived.