The library bar
New York City. Old loft building. I enter it through a heavy wooden door. Looks like warm cherry with a reddish tint. There’s a living space as soon as I enter the apartment. I walk into what I think is the kitchen. Instead, it’s a long, narrow room with a bar counter. There’s still a bunch of stuff the previous resident left. The walls are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. They are filled with old, dusty books. It’s a library. The structure is dark, heavy, and gnarly. Almost no natural lighting. At the end of the room is a small stage where musicians perform. It’s a bar. It’s a venue. It’s a gathering place inside the apartment.
Every year around this time, I dream of this exact loft and library bar.