Missing the wintry days in The Coldness of New York, 16 and 17, in my big Pink room, waiting for something. Dreaming of better days, of butterflies, dreaming of love, dreaming of lust. Dreaming and believing everything there is to hope for, yet siting in tears and regret for an endless influx of many hormones, and wonders. Walking through the East Village breathing endless dirt, with infinite Creativity circling every inch of every foot step. Walking the city in the nights, only to find yourself ending up in a warm room, engaging in endless conversations of what is and what was, and what what, and Barely you know your own name, yet faced with so much younger at such a uncanny timing, in the dark, city lights, cold with snow and warm rooms.