rain. rain. 80 trombones peeking from over the rungs of the rotunda. surreal central park downpour with nobody in sight. hardly recognizing the boathouse in its buzzing, watery state. prosecco, roast chicken and gershwin in a cozy room in chelsea. more rain. bowling alleys and diners and motorcycles and midnight construction site explorations and lesbian bourbon bars.
june is super weird, man.
