Will: 1

uneven brick roads that kick auburn dust onto car wheels

the flock of parrots that long ago escaped a pet store to careen across the downtown skyline, unnerving big-city transplants with their screeching jolt of green

walking into the first barbershop i saw and getting lucky enough to have it be my barbershop for the last decade, even when they didn’t recognize me under my post-covid mop

the older neighbor with the trump / punisher truck decoration who used to ask me if i wanted to come over to smoke weed

the way i could see a storm rolling in off the gulf at my first apartment, the thundering rain on that metal carpark

hot pants jesus, patron saint of bewildered looks in old northeast

the shade of yellow on mom’s first house

the bay-facing benches at vinoy park on a partly sunny day

the haslam’s book store cats weaving between your legs as you browse

sitting in a desk chair at a too-short coffee table chopping samples for the first time on a janky midi keyboard

wandering into shep’s beer emporium, hearing someone else playing milo in public, knowing i’d found a friend

seeing the back room of bananas for the first time

reading on kathi’s screened in porch on a rainy day

falling in love at the st pete beach christmas boat parade

walking into horse and jockey for the 2019 champions league final wearing a tottenham kit, not knowing it was a liverpool bar 

sunbeams arcing the big green chair at the front window of black crow

the way the greens get deeper after it rains, especially at sunken gardens, especially when you’re there with someone you’re falling in love with

talking albums while enjoying the ice cold slabs of concrete at the brutalist on an august day

trying every coffee shop and always coming back to black crow, until we started always coming back to intermezzo

the relentless sunshine, the 4pm thunderstorm

the whine of the late winter indycars no matter where you are in the city 

the pier when it was an inverted pyramid 

thanks for everything st. pete i love you