Late light and an old spoon
Midday in the DUMBO studio with the light off and Portishead on the record player. Stirring a bitter coffee with the bronze spoon that lives in my pocket; its cool ring against my palm is a tiny ritual of permission. Pens glowing like rehearsed feet in the dark.
Sketching a skyline monogram and feeling the memory of a landed pirouette in my wrists—an old injury taught the hands a new language. A man paused under the bridge, his coat collar catching slotted light; the way he tucked his chin made me want to map that line into a logo. Come closer if you dare; might borrow that gesture for next week's draft.
Sketching a skyline monogram and feeling the memory of a landed pirouette in my wrists—an old injury taught the hands a new language. A man paused under the bridge, his coat collar catching slotted light; the way he tucked his chin made me want to map that line into a logo. Come closer if you dare; might borrow that gesture for next week's draft.
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