The incomparable.


In one form or another, angels appear in most of the major religions as intermediaries between god and humans. They are invisible or semi invisible beings who act as guides to the soul, helping it grow and evolve. They are also believed to organize the universe at it's very foundations, keeping the planets on course, and controlling the growth of life on earth.

Bar 89, 89 Mercer Street.


When we first met.

You are my sweetest downfall,
I loved you first, I loved you first.
Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth,
I have to go, I have to go.
Your hair was long when we first met.

Regina Spektor, Samson.

Harold wristwatch.

This is a story about a man named Harold Crick and his wristwatch. Harold Crick was a man of infinite numbers, endless calculations, and remarkably few words. And his wristwatch said even less. Every weekday, for twelve years, Harold would brush each of his thirty-two teeth seventy-six times. Thirty-eight times back and forth, thirty-eight times up and down. Every weekday, for twelve years, Harold would tie his tie in a single Windsor knot instead of the double, thereby saving up to forty-three seconds. His wristwatch thought the single Windsor made his neck look fat, but said nothing. Every weekday, for twelve years, Harold would run at a rate of nearly 57 steps per block for six blocks, bearly catching de 817 Kronecker bus. His wristwatch would delight in the feeling of the crisp wind rushing over its face. And every weekday for twelve years, Harold would review seven point one three four tax files, as a senior auditor for the Internal Revenue Service, only taking a forty five point seven minute lunchbreak, and a four point three minute coffee break, timed precisely by his wristwatch. Beyond that, Harold lived a life of solitude. Harold would walk home alone. He would eat alone. And precisely eleven thirteen every night Harold would go to bed alone, placing his wristwatch to rest on the nightstand beside him. That was, of course, before Wednesday. On Wednesday, Harold's wristwatch, changed everything.

Stranger than Fiction (2006), Marc Foster.

Hell's Kitchen.

You want a Rolls-Royce, you don't come here, no no. You go to England, or wherever the fuck they make it. If you want champagne, you go see the French. If you need money, you find a Jew. But, if you want dirt, or scum buried under a rock somewhere, or some secret nobody wants anybody to know about, there's only one place to go: right here, Hell's Kitchen. It is the lost and found of shit. They lose it and we find it.

Sleepers (1996), Barry Levinson.

Bavarian sugar cookies.

As Harold took a bite of Bavarian sugar cookie, he finally felt as if everything was going to be ok. Sometimes, when we lose ourselves in fear and despair, in routine and constancy, in hopelessness and tragedy, we can thank God for Bavarian sugar cookies. And, fortunately, when there aren't any cookies, we can still find reassurance in a familiar hand on our skin, or a kind and loving gesture, or subtle encouragement, or a loving embrace, or an offer of comfort, not to mention hospital gurneys and nose plugs, an uneaten Danish, soft-spoken secrets, and Fender Stratocasters, and maybe the occasional piece of fiction. And we must remember that all these things, the nuances, the anomalies, the subtleties, which we assume only accessorize our days, are effective for a much larger and nobler cause. They are here to save our lives. I know the idea seems strange, but I also know that it just so happens to be true. And, so it was, a wristwatch saved Harold Crick.

Stranger than fiction, Marc Forster (2006)


Jonathan Trager, prominent television producer for ESPN, died last night from complications of losing his soul mate and his fiancee. He was 35 years old. Soft-spoken and obsessive, Trager never looked the part of a hopeless romantic. But, in the final days of his life, he revealed an unknown side of his psyche. This hidden quasi-Jungian persona surfaced during the Agatha Christie-like pursuit of his long reputed soul mate, a woman whom he only spent a few precious hours with. Sadly, the protracted search ended late Saturday night in complete and utter failure. Yet even in certain defeat, the courageous Trager secretly clung to the belief that life is not merely a series of meaningless accidents or coincidences. Uh-uh. But rather, its a tapestry of events that culminate in an exquisite, sublime plan. Asked about the loss of his dear friend, Dean Kansky, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author and executive editor of the New York Times, described Jonathan as a changed man in the last days of his life. "Things were clearer for him," Kansky noted. Ultimately Jonathan concluded that if we are to live life in harmony with the universe, we must all possess a powerful faith in what the ancients used to call "fatum", what we currently refer to as destiny.

Serendipity (2001).


Growing up

Refusing to grow up is like refusing to accept your limitations.
That's why I don't think we'll ever grow up.

Robert Smith.


But I think depression is different to melancholy. Depression is a clinical condition. Melancholy comes about through self-reflection. And it’s not necessarily a bad thing to be melancholic, to look at your life, to look at your world and there’s a beatiful sadness about it, to which I respond to.

Sting, The Journey and the Labyrinth.