There is a small studio apartment in the market district of an old romantic city that is falling apart but refuses to let go of the dreams and schemes that have been caught between its floorboards. In this little studio, hanging on the walls and standing in rows arranged by decade are works of art I have collected through out my lonely travels all these years, some are covered and wrapped in blankets and some just lay bare collecting dust... some hide behind gold colored frames and some just linger without presumption the way I found them... some have increased in value quite a bit and some have been lost and forgetten by time and will never find a home but for the one I have given... some still effect me the way they did when I first found them and some have learned to haunt me as old lovers that I abandoned too soon... somewhere in the world are pieces I wish I had not parted with... looking back at those choices - I should have stayed with the art instead of taking the money... In this little room there is also a shelf filled with old books - very old... they were there when I took the apartment and have read but only a few of them... I will not throw them out and they fill the apartment with the smell that old books acquire with time... there is a desk in the center which I stack newer books that I just drop off when I come and go along with files that may be of importance some day... there is an old leather arm-chair that looks more like rust than burgundy... a twin bed that seems to retain the smell of whoever the last girl that I brought here was - though I can not remember her name or her face... but there is a hint of No. 5 in the air... I don’t usually bring anyone here... but a man gets urges... and though I try to keep this little room a secret - I have, on occasion, paraded my harem and my whores in and out these doors... There is an old Hi-Fi system in one corner with a turn table and old symphonic recordings with a few jazz records here and there - also remnants left behind from a previous occupant... there is a small wash room but no kitchen... I have improvised by building a small counter to hold an electric griddle and a rice cooker, I put a small refrigerator underneath and a cabinet to house pots and plates and assorted spirits... I have secretly managed to keep this little corner of the universe to myself - come good times and bad, sickness and health, richer or poorer... for close to ten years now - it is the longest relationship I have ever had... it has been there for me whether I have needed it or not... it has hidden me and protected me and my collections all these years... it is all mine... it is the only place that I have ever managed to maintain a steady and reliable rent payment on... it is my fortress of solitude... my sanctuary from this world drowning in chaos... every once in a while I show up - unannounced to the landlord... and pour myself a drink... put on a record - some sad and melancholy piece... unwrap the art and admire it all by my self... I’ll stay for two to three days alone - hidden away from the world with the stories I’ll never share and art I am trying hard to keep from prying eyes... and just be alone - for the world drains me... society takes more energy than it gives... my family... women... those I work with... drain me... but... don’t try to find it... you simply wont... and if you think this is where I will be when the shit hits the fan or when I simply decide to vanish for ever... no... It wont be here... but it will always be here... perhaps I’ll leave my collection behind as others did before me... for another wandering romantic to enjoy... it will always be here... tonight... I blow out the candles and enjoy the scent of fading pages... the whisper of fine music... and the lonely brush strokes of forgotten artists...
not the studio - but very much like it.
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