I Remember You Well In The Chippewa Hotel in anticlimatic

I was listening to Chelsea Hotel while I was working on this little trip back to the 1960s:

That square turd of a brutalist brown brick shitbox has been there my entire life. I had no idea there was a beautiful victorian ghost occupying the same space. What an absolute downgrade.

Hotel.
Ice cream.

Brown Brick.

Ohhh but you got away, didn’t you baby?
You just turned your back on the crowd…

More and more I get why I love old buildings, old houses.
Ever think back to college, or high school, or grade school, and take a moment to realize that the entire staff of it- all the teachers you had, the people working there, often the entire building itself- is completely gone. There are young fresh faced strangers in those halls now, if the halls are even there, or even resemble themselves.

The turnover in this world is remarkable. And the most remarkable thing about it is how fast it sneaks by undetected. It is remarkably unremarkable.

Old buildings haven’t left us like the people inside of them have multiple times over.
We are the ones that leave them, in fact.
Leave them in piles of rubble.
And erect brown dogshit in their place.