Picture the city at night, lit by mist and streetlights. Land of stale smoke and a light snowfall, of day-old pizza and two perfect chords. Sweet mantra-land where you walk, wrapped in a worn coat, through the storm to the diner with your closest friends. Homeland of lost intuition, where the right feeling comes back and back and back to you again. 
 It's night, and the puddles catch the neon, and up on the roof of the Sound Museum, all the old ghosts are starting a band. Down by the harbor, one by one, they're gathering driftwood. They're building a boat to row away from loneliness. They're singing—hail, hail bohemia. 
 www.johnshakespear.com