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There is no such thing as writer's block. Only genre problems. A lack of inspiration is only a matter of not knowing which details to pluck.

My friends live in a splendid place. It has old concrete floors and a meat locker. And whatever's available always turns out to be enough. At five and again at seven they sleep through the phone ringing for half an hour at a time. Anthony and I didn't. We made the night turn into the morning by making allusions to software functionality and drinking a bottle of wine at Old Salem. I told him to read a book that another good friend has lent me, and he wrote it down. We stole some iced coffee and whatever food wasn't locked up from the shop downstairs, and then i think that i chewed his ear up a bit too much and it was time to leave.

Winston-Salem may be the only city I've ever been in with salon culture. Here the quality of the talk is like the quality of bread in old countries. Every day it may be the same old thing: bleached flour, water. But everyday it is fresh, and if you came here you would tell your friends about it when you got home. It is important to have a place in the daytime where people know to go to see people they know that is made out of very old wood and has many windows. There also should be plenty of sunlight, but only at the right times of day. Under these conditions people can really enjoy each other in a way that is free and simple. Plants and books help, but the latter is less necessary than you think, and good seating is almost always incidental to good conversation. Maybe just something to lean on once in a while is enough. Also, I admit (somewhat begrudgingly) that smoking can also help make good talk. And people still smoke in Winston-Salem. Inside.

i feel like smoking is a crucial randomizer; because it creates one-on-one talk that doesn't normally happen. if you're in a circle with a stranger who is going to smoke without a partner, you can join them, it's customary
if the stranger is a she and she strikes your fancy--provided that she's are your bag--it's a perfect chance. It's gallant to join her, and it can alert her of your interest in a way that is not at all conspicuous. Regardless of the outcome, you've had something nice and rare: a few seconds with a relative stranger, and often you will do this with them or talk to them again. At the very least you will remember their name.

Now, after eight, listening to my stomach and others' and wine-snores i need to go home. And I can't help but thinking that poison is a sweet way to die.

good day.

james.