Sweet morning time

I start my routine on the corner of North 3rd Street in Williamsburg. Coffee in hand, I go to the banks of the East River, where I happen upon a man playing his trumpet alone, isolated from the rest of the word. A true moment of poetry, the melancholic notes pressed into the air slipping away quietly towards the shores of Manhattan, which must already be getting up....

A block away, three young graffiti artists are busy sticking posters on a rusty sheetmetal wall. I tell myself that I am really beginning to love this neighborhood, which fascinates me more and more. And it occurs to me that if Jack Kerouac was 30 years old today, he would surely hang around more so at a corner like this one in Brooklyn than at a corner at Times Square in Manhattan...