We'll live in a crusty old apartment in Manhattan, made chic by a haphazardly strung up set of Tibetan prayer flags by the window. We'll be poor but learn that money never meant much anyway, we'll eat breakfast, lunch and tea on the rooftop amongst the company of a 50 over friendly pigeons. I'll get over my fear of birds because of this. We'll drink cheap red wine up on that rooftop, during hazy orange sunsets and yell 'New York, we love you.' We'll catch the subway, like true NYC slickers, but be secretly scared of getting mugged by homeless men in beanies every ride. I'll sit by the window in our apartment, listening to the beat of the city and write the start of a hundred different books. We'll buy wobbly bikes with chipped paint and cycle around Central park, we'll eat ice-cream but never eat from a hot dog stand because there is nothing worse than processed, unidentfiable meat in a red skin served by Latino's on street corners wearing stripes and a hat. We'll adopt a cat and name him Cat, al la` Holly Golightly. We'll drink too much coffee and smoke too many cigarettes, sitting in boho dives, surrounded by poets and musicians and creepy, dark cloak wearing types.
And after all of that, on the first Saturday of each month, we'll deposit the coins from our Broadway Coin Jar, dress to the nines and see a musical.