confessions of a bitter artist (a fictional journal) 1.

  1. Welcome to the Gayborhood

Philadelphia, June 1995.

Morning. The blank ceiling stares. I look away, try not to get caught in what if. But mind is quicksand, resistance trapped in regret. Shards of time disentangle on the wall. I stagger downstairs, out the door and onto 12th Street. Turn left at the corner onto South. Six blocks down and I’m at The Bean, a hip, boho coffee shop still untouched by tourism. “Medium, house blend—black,” no pretense. If I had a bidi, I’d toke it. Zen. Sunlight. No memories, no blues, no one-night stands. Just sidewalk traffic and my reflection smiling back at me in the storefront window.

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