Summer arrived a month ago with blue skies and clean breezes. It's a cause for celebration.  Nights spent on the tar roof drinking beer, encircled by the faint fire fly glow of christmas lights.  The city is a distant presence on the skyline residing over us like a constellation.  We've bought lawn chairs with cup holders in their fabric arms that we sit on while musing over small thoughts and ghost stories.  There is no fence on the edge of the roof because it is not meant for entertaining but the danger adds an element of novelty and thrill.  

I've moved out of my parents house to a three-story apartment building in Park Slope.  It's a new freedom.  I have my own neighborhood.  I have my own neighbors. I have my own apartment (which I share with two roommates) and most importantly I have my own room.  Now I sit in my new room and write with the help of a few sips of whiskey and old tunes blasting through my speakers.  The day is beautiful outside but having no where to go to escape my own thoughts, I sit here and I try to write.  I try to recapture my old story telling skills.  My teachers used to say I was good at this.  But why?  Right now it escapes me.  There is no plot that jumps to mind.  Maybe it was too much whiskey, or maybe it was too little.  Better luck later, maybe.