from a solitary peak on the noble Hob Mountain, i write this missive to you, kind traveller.
have you been on this road long? summer seemed to expand well beyond its anticipated boundaries, scorching the whole wide world up, and while i was not burned. i am missing everyone.
i've heard tell of a curious place, available from anywhere, never closed, and open to those who are knowing. you are guaranteed to be the sole client for the duration of your visit. to put it simply? a cafe, only for you.
if you find yourself on a particular corner, in a particularly forgettable city-- across the street from a green record store, the cornerstone corner of the hotel scallops; next door to the nOstrum grOcers shop is a small coffeeshop called bob's son cafe.
a sort of haven for the real Beat Poets, neohoodooists, bluesmamas, shittalkers, seatsniffers and pianists. the air is clean, the menu is stacked and the music is exclusive.
bob's son cafe
in the cornerstone corner of the hotel scallops; next door to the nOstrum grOcers shop. yes, across the street from the green record store.
keep an ear to the grindstone.
we'll talk again after regime change.
yours,
RF