Friday, March 15, 2013 at The Good Neighbour
You carry a small hardcover notebook in your back pocket. Your jeans are faded around the outline of it. Most people think that it’s a wallet, or a cellphone. I am the only one that knows the truth. You keep your pencil in the inside pocket of your jacket, navy green plaid. It’s mechanical, the anti-thesis of you, but it’s efficiency is a constant inspiration. Sometimes you smell like last night’s whiskey, and sometimes you smell like bathwater with epsom salts, and usually you smell like shaving cream and Orange Pekoe tea. I want nothing more than to steal your small hardcover notebook out of your pocket, and take your dreams, your ink, your lines and your sketches. I’ll build something with them, I promise you that. I’ll build something you couldn’t even think of. It will be strange and towering and most likely held together with fishing wire.