A journal entry from the train ride home:
The Prince Hotel in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, New York is on 93rd Street. The streets go up-to-down rather than down-to-up in Brooklyn, so I rightly assumed I was near the water. The Verranzanzos Bridge gleamed and twinkled in the distance. I have a bad habit of grinding my teeth. I'm trying to decide if I should spend money on Ramen or wine. I want to start and finish my Picasso play in four hours because I work best with extreme deadlines. I took pictures for my boss of candlelit tables and a fake Mona Lisa. At the lounge, two guys offered to buy me wine. Fresh Blood in Bay Ridge, I guess it was pretty apparent. I declined and left the lounge only to narrowly escape being hit by a bike only to narrowly escape being hit by a car. Anyway, The Prince Hotel has a flashing sign on the roof, which I've only encountered in horror movies or my idea of horror movies. But it was real. It was festively lined with Alsatian slats. On my way home from Bay Ridge, I finished Nine Stories; "Teddy" might be the best thing I ever read
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