hanging on the fire escape

by Rachel Lynch in


Hotel Chelsea, simply the chelsea. Taking polaroids on the balcony and walking through hallways that resemble a hospital, a mental ward. But it's a hospital filled with art, the walls are covered with works and they've even got some photos of warhol here. It gives me chills to think that these rooms were home to Bob Dylan, Iggy Pop and Bukowski. The Sex Pistols' Sid Vicious had a girlfriend who was found stabbed to death here. Red velvet furniture and radiators that bang the sounds of the city's bad pluming. I'm laying on my bed, getting ready to finish writing by next book. It's completely different from the first and written about someone I love/loved/used to love/can't love.