Unlocked.

I'll try to explain although, I can't promise you'll understand. It’s kind of like riding a fire-breathing tiger down a river in the rain. Somewhere between a tattoo, and carving confessions in wet cement for someone to find walking home at 7pm on Sullivan Street.

Sometimes it hits me when I’m on the train heading uptown, ten minutes late to an appointment, coffee spilling on my knees as I cross them to fit between two investment bankers in ties on their Blackberry smart phones checking yesterday's sports stats. People are yawning. Wondering why they wake up at the same time every morning to shower and surrender to the American dream. I wake up later and work smarter. But my dream is a little different; a little more International. It’s kind of like a hidden rocky beach near Ensenada where the water is turquoise blue. The coffee is always black. The wine is always red. And lightening storms are watched wrapped in a blanket from the fire escape. I catch my reflection in the window near 23rd street and notice that I’m smiling. I used to think happiness was boring. But it makes me want to discuss lantern festivals and secret restaurants on W. 69th between Amsterdam and Columbus. It makes me want to trade favorite music and love notes and drink pulp free orange juice with breakfast cooked in a pan that hasn't been washed in a few days. It’s sharing dreams about enchanted cottages in the woods and understanding references to Thoreau. It's getting the joke.

I smile because I can't help it. Imagine all the things we’d miss if patience didn’t exist. Maybe we'd never get over fears of ferris wheels. And maybe, we'd never learn that two bottles pair much better with the view at the very, very top of the mountain.