Nothing in this place but me.

I’ve been sitting around all night, sipping whiskey and reading Bukowski. I am trying to find inspiration. I hate Bukowski. I have been waiting for the phone to ring, but as usual, it never does.

I’ve got this idea in my head: I’m sitting on a balcony, it’s summer time. I’m staring south to the Manhattan skyline. I’m sipping whiskey, just like I am now; but I’m happy instead of lonely. I’ll be reading Hemmingway, not Bukowski. I hate Bukowski, he’s too cynical.

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