we don't go out (the walk through, the closet on the to-do list, the walk-through-closet, who we live up against in layers) it comes to us. but now it is marigold. the walls are soft with dinge and grime from the 30's, but more importantly, they are marigold. the whole apartment smells like old and lime oil, the dusty wine-heat from some 40 miles away pushing oyster fog over the streets.
this cinna-pidge brings me the gorgeous and filthy news of the new dailyness. Photo by Marcel.
