Certain rooms, whether they be childhood bedrooms or sunlit kitchens, attach themselves so strongly to events in the past that they house the memory itself. Under the collective roof of 1616, my private bedroom was right off the public living room: its door revealed a still-life of the late-night: dreams and insomnia, insecurity and creativity.
Even at our wildest house parties, guests would never cross that threshold – instead they would peer in as if an invisible rope preserved the space. But at the end of one such evening I found my über crush, who didn’t even know I existed, collapsed on my bed. Half inebriated and half asleep, her ever-confident poise had evaporated into the late night along with a stream of melancholic tears now dried on her face.
» listen to more recycled tunes in the recycle bin.