Restrained writing, visiting roommates (former), self portraits against a splattered sheetrock wall. The Pilot seven-millimeter dispenses of God’s black ink onto parchment, the modern chisel equivalent on bleached twenty-pound paper instead of papyrus or granite.
A bit of aesthetic experimentation here, shooting through my belov’d knockoff sunglasses. Of pondering the purchase of the real, Italian-made object, its exorbitant but very likely justified price and all. Of quality versus compromise, of emotional experience to verifiable utility.
If you’re viewing this from Brooklyn, say yes and I’ll be there by noon. Even the Wednesday freelance would bow down before your invitation, though many would entirely understandably be displeased. Best to postpone to Thursday, but Saturday would top even that.