When I die, leave me in a hole in a wall, not a hole in the ground.
July 19th, 2013, 11am
It was 17.2°C with few clouds. There was moderate breeze.
Baudelaire would have loved this place. Ratty around the edges—its charm at once immanent and ephemeral.
The hole in the wall delivers more than good food cheap. A considered conversation with a casual stranger on the sartorial choices of Donald Duck. Quiet communion over slurped bowls of soup. The knowledge that there’s still someplace for all of us.
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