What I do instead of the things I am actually supposed to be doing.

The first flight out of LaGuardia leaves at 5:50 AM. Jeremy is going out to LA for good this time, which finds me in a car driving up the FDR with him and Daren as the sun comes up slowly over Park Slope. Daren had offered to drive weeks ago; but since sleep and I have always been strange bed fellows, I offered to come along, in spite of the Godless hour at which we had to leave. The highway, now, is almost completely abandoned and as we get into Queens we see perhaps one car drive past us in twenty minutes. There’s a strange, thick fog that’s unique to New York springtime that covers the Van Wick Expressway as we drive into blinking red lights that loom somewhere in the distance. None of us say a word the entire trip, but sit, comfortable in our silence listening to Joni Mitchell sing about loss and love with abandon.
It is the end of an era, and we are all working on very little sleep.
I, myself, spent the greater part of evenings past sitting in an all night café on 1st and Broadway, drawing and watching as the ghosts of empty taxi cabs flashed yellow, flowing one after the other down otherwise un-traveled Avenues, and lonely people, illuminated by gaudy fluorescent lights sat with books, computers and half finished cups of coffee as if to distract themselves from the night.

Yeah. I didn't finish that one. Perhaps I will, eventually.