I have romanticized exposed brick, partly because I know that once I leave Manhattan I’ll most likely head back to Los Angeles, where nothing is exposed (except skin-zing!).
With brick walls I imagine rainy Saturday mornings to be more relaxing, and New York Magazine to entertain me for longer than 30-minutes. In the corner, I envision a recently-purchased baroque lamp that was once owned by an aristocrat, or, at the very least, a hip European expat.
Somewhere in the apartment there’s a patio, or a fire escape, or a large window that looks out to something other than my neighbors bathroom. There’s a four-day-old game of Scrabble going on in the other room, and warm coffee next to my Mies van der Rohe recliner.
And because of this, I am also much cooler.
I choose to block out the bugs sneaking out of the cracks, which, lets be honest, is a much more likely scenario to be had in a pile of bricks.
