When I was in New York I stayed with a family who lived in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn. The building had a great stoop for sitting and smoking on, and an old-school fire escape that you could sit on till your cheeks turned pink in the winter chill and a laundry room that smelt like starch and you could lean against a machine and read a little while you waited for your clothes to dry. The house always smelt like tea, and wood, and there were two cats (Rocky and Rosie) who used to roam around the place like royalty, climbing couches and perching along shelves. Our room was the warmest. My friend's dad had painted the walls the colour of egg yolks when she was 10 or so, and there was a big chair for sitting in, and lots of empty space to fill with talking and laughing. I love that apartment. I miss it. I miss New York. I get that feeling a lot. It can be a picture, or a smell, or the sound of bon iver, or the word "Hamilton", or a glimpse at my NARS blush, or the title of this blog, or bagels, or any nicolas cage movie, ever. But sometimes its things that I didn't even see or smell or hear that remind me. Like these pictures. This is Jade Sarita Arnott of Arnsdorf in her apartment in New York. The apartment in Cobble Hill didn't look like this. But there was a wooden table that we pulled out from the wall so we could fit an extra chair at, and there were bookshelves groaning with books and art all over the walls. Jade's place looks perfect. The green door, the high ceilings, the thick curtains, the big chairs covered in soft throws. When I grow up I want an apartment like this. Mint green walls and clean spaces and space for me to breathe. A place to live in.
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