How I abhor this place, its sweet and bitter taste...

...has left me wretched, wretching on all fours-Chicago, I'm yours.I've been known to call on Chicago as my disappointing lover. Some nights wild, other nights ho-hum.

I live adjacent to the lakefront path and I run against wind, and see nothing but sky scraper, but that's all of very little asthetic value when your eyes are your own.

Oh, I know I can't be cry-eye all the time. I've friends and family and an birdie of an apartment, but somehow the city still seems sub-par. I think I may mold such opinion because I want allowance, an excuse, a mandate to move. New York City and all things new. They call it the city of second chances. I believe I may be ready to cash in on mine.

There's the issue of Sarah Lawrence.

God, do I love her.
The elite of all elite. A writer's wonderland and the thought of it points me to prose. Seats me in coffeeshops in the late hours of the p.m. where I now forfeit another episode of 'Everybody Loves Raymond' (a show so problematic I'll skip the diatribe) to write words and thoughts and phrases. I still can't write. The prose too pointed, too aware, too constructed.

I want to write words that run. That race and finish. I want to run and finish. I want to make beautiful what everyone already sees in this city. I just want to see.