The Old Address

I have been scarce with words lately, and for this I apologize. I write this as we are on the cusp– our last night on Penn Street, in the building we’ve occupied many times and in different manners during the past three years. It is also our last night without the Internets for a spell, the last night Olive will charge up and down the long wooden hallway, and the last night the trains will shout through our doors and windows as we slumber beneath feathers. Motors roar, orange street lamps cut in and out, the door to The Friendly yawns open and closed.

Tomorrow there will be new sounds to grow accustomed to.

More from me soon, but first this– the ladies of the house amongst the bareness and the boxes.

photo (1)

With love.

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About bearicaquinn

Smallish, smushy in the sad parts, certainly destined for cat-lady-dom. Enjoys boats, bikes, black coffee, pug faces, sourdough bread, the morning when you have slept long enough, beards, mountainsides, art, rooftops, etc. Will continue to live in things that are interestingly shaped. So octopus.
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