It was never sleepy in New York City of 1996. The nights were filled with smattering music escaping out of the basement bars and the mornings resembled the smell of wet newspaper and roasted coffee. Earlier I had only been twenty six and worked in a record store on Bleeker Street, the type of store where time is nonexistent and no one cares. My boss, Marty, was a hippie and did not want to sell CDs. He said vinyl had soul. I was starting to believe him. I had no grand plan for life. My apartment was small, the coffee machine was leaking, and the wall of the building was visible. But it was mine. I sat most evenings by the window, and put my guitar on my lap, and watched the world going like a movie I had nothing to play in. Until she entered the shop.
