One month of blogging, impressions from a talentless Hemingway.

Last night I was seated at Raffles somewhere in the 1920’s.

A talentless Hemingway, lips glued to a warm glass of red, eyes glued to a passing parade of human flotsam and jetsam.

Small, dark bohemian café, where there is always someone willing to share opinions.

Never knowing who I might run into next, a poet wearing their heart on their sleeve, an artist splashing words like paint on a canvas or a writer who’s anger is barely concealed beneath their sticky-sweet syrupy words.

I can only picture many of these people in my mind, just barely making them out through the smoky haze, some sad, some tired and many lonely souls, all with a story to tell.

Others might only see the sadness and loneliness, but I see beauty.

Blog; such an ugly name for such beauty.

While the old Raffles rots beneath its freshly painted veneer, like a sad amusement park, this outlet for creativity, this bespoke community will find its own place in history.