Aldo Rossi to my left, Nevelson behind me, Beuys still talking to the coyote. I scroll. Outside, it’s forty degrees and tourists are roasting like chestnuts. Somewhere out there, maybe someone still enjoys writing paragraphs—small snowballs of thought. Likes art. Laughs easily. Loves video art that lingers like a dream and installations that swallow you whole. Feels awe before oceans and eats street food like a ritual. Enjoys torrential rain as much as ruthless sun. I’m here, mildly refrigerated. If you like telling stories—or receiving them—then yes, definitely, write me
