Nanny sings sweetly; he's got fingers in his ears. A beautiful day outdoors brings out the caretakers and production crews.

Bright colors, grunge with gazes, everyone beelines, moseys, and co-exists.

Writers, poets, creators reveal that we are here to mine ourselves for the building materials of bridges between beings.

Bites are packed with fresh, tea like honey sunsets. I'm in Italy by the beach, edging closer to the spices. I want to bite through it all, in one motion sink my teeth passed layers of complementary experiences.

Vacation is when watery, oily, acidic juices are plowed with crusty bread, where butter comes in clumps and goes down in littler ones, flavor bombs, when you have time to pour the second cup of honey with a punch of rose. Aimless and timeless, there might be no other method to managing a day for you.

It can exist in a window, mentality required; One open to being with itself, acknowledging magic that moves you first and others later; Magic like moving for the mind's benefit, like happening across the ludicrous and loud, like finding a space you build as photogenic, like noticing flavors that will transport your body where it wants to go, like ending up somewhere satisfying, like uttering what a great time you had alone with everyone.

Written over lunch in the East Village during a walk through lower Manhattan.