Full cup of coffee…empty soul,
Warm pie…bitter cold streets.
The addict frequents the café, but feeds his body in the alley.
A woman talks at him while he stares into his food.
He longs to disappear into the cracks of the city,
Where he can exist in the infinite bliss of the needle.
Warm pie…bitter cold streets.
The addict frequents the café, but feeds his body in the alley.
A woman talks at him while he stares into his food.
He longs to disappear into the cracks of the city,
Where he can exist in the infinite bliss of the needle.
HOPPER - Nighthawks - 1942
My nighthawk has constructed a dwelling within the crack of an inner-city pavement. Delicately placed atop stilts the structure is a place for him to escape and feed his drug habit. He would require storage for related equipment, a production area, and a 'use-room' where his ritual begins.
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