Croissant with eggs, croissant with coffee, croissant with soup, croissant on pizza.  
I was brought up bourgeois, and God damnit, to hell with me if i forget my roots.

Second day in a row in a cafe in the West Village where a friend works but isn't here, I'm sipping on black coffee and my new staple: a flaky, warm croissant with some jam.  Jazz emanates from the walls, the dimly light room lets me think straight or get things done.  

Actually, my procrastination is more productive.  I'm crossing things off of the other to-do list; the things that don't deal with homework, time, or paying bills.  The to-do list for the right-brain.

I suppose New York might be where you go if you want to get confronted with all your existential crises at once.  December here will only be more frenzied than the last few months.

This cafe is my quiet hideaway.

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