In high school, one of my teachers told me "You shouldn't knock on closed doors".
Today feels like that a little bit.

Also, it feels like a "Sometimes the bar eats you" day.

Whenever I fantasize about running away, my destination is always Cold War-era New York - but a fictionalized one, one populated almost exclusively by artists and detectives and trouble and crooked dames and hip cats and junky-poets. I meet a guy in a jazz club who gives me a postcard, or perhaps I help a fallen italian to his feet and it turns out he's the godfather, or I make the correct remark about a certain art installation and the artist is standing nearby and he is suddenly enamored with me, and just like that I'm in. And I'd know people, and the heights would be dizzying, and we'd be doing amazing things with our art. Not merely with our poetry or our music or our sculptures, but with our art. And we, ourselves, nude and mortal as we were, would be art. The days would spin dizzy and out of control and amidst the threat of the bomb and communism and racial tensions and a million other woes, necks would crane to see us.

And then I'm like, "Oh yeah, that place is about 90% myth and forty years expired. And you shouldn't knock on closed doors."