Each year, Tilda and I celebrate her birthday by holing up for a night of pushing boundaries. This year, we decided to invent a Sid and Nancy scene: we’d take a room at the Chelsea Hotel, enjoy some murder and mayhem, and see if the tabloids picked it up.
We wound up in Thomas Wolfe’s former digs, Room Eight Twenty-nine. No screaming headlines; still, I’m not sure we can go home again.
I was inspired to do some writing.
4 comments:
Wow. Just... nope, no words. Just wow.
Your penmanship must be improving because I can read what her chest says!
Glad my writing translates to other media.
how very Yoko Ono
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