thethirdtwin

Directly across the road from the Sporlock Institute for the Criminally Insane, another building stood. This one was several floors shorter (although a few decades newer) than that looming construction, and home to the supreme excitement that was Napoleon Packing & Assemblage Ltd. The roof held an interesting posse, none of which were certified to be standing on the roof. The first, Otto Octavius (Criminal Mastermind™) had  a glazed-out look in his eye, giving that non-look to the upper-right actuator that squeaked back at him incessantly. Next to him was a blonde girl, laying on her back and sunning, apparently at peace with herself. This p

Walking into the loft for the first time – meeting Roger for the first time – would be something Mark would never forget. Roger, tall, muscular, in shape, intimidating.  But he was laughing, smiling, patting him on the shoulder (nearly knocking him down), inviting him in. Roger, the most famous person Mark had ever met, inviting the diminutive blonde and four-eyed filmmaker in. Roger letting him film.  Him, listening to Roger play. Listen to the broken chords being coaxed into beauty, into rock. Mark never liked rock, but he always liked what Roger used to play. Mark remembers Roger not always being that full of life. No, that's not right.

Sometimes I wonder why I struggle to make ends meet everyday. Why, everyday, I grope for just enough money to keep us alive. Even on the warm May days (such as this one) where I can leave my accessories at home. But most of the time, I wear them just to preserve the starving artist look.  On these days where I can stand on the roof and see the kids just out of Alphabet City ride their bikes in the street. I remember riding my bike back in Scarsdale. And now, I am hungry and (somehow!) still cold here. Aren't I just one big fucking ray of sunshine as of late. I head towards the door of the loft and fiddle with the settings on my camera. I sto