the aires of buenos.

[taken directly from my drunken taxi iPhone writing. good luck deciphering it.]

 

We sped down – road. windows fucking up my hair. the taxi driver liked inxs. a beautiful woman, belly full of bottom shelf wine to a show, friend of a friend. architecture whoosh. soul. where we’re we? each block argued. Pairs. New York city. Barcelona. mind your sh. Neil Cassidy came to mind. his dance. he had no FB page, just the people on the bus. I dot want to leave, an many haven’t. my photos lack. the videos la k. if you ain’t here, son, then it can’t r explained. but even the name itself conjures up magic. Soul. NYC is punk. Pairs is Ponce. Barcelona is barracho. Buenos Aries, like Cassidy, just dances. and could give a fuck if you watched or not. (alta) I don’t want the wine to stop. I don’t want the music to end. I just wanna be a part of the sponge. the cab was 30 that I didn’t have, but it felt like tithing. here, have this. I dont have much, and I wish I could give more. they talk with both hands, wrote a fella. Well of course they do. thsi city is too much to explain with one.