CHELSEA HOTEL

 

 

 

I almost began to envy you. Famous for your lyrical poetry, unwashed hair a beacon to all who bow down and prostrate themselves at your feet. I wondered how it would feel to have a room go silent, straining to drink in each precious syllable. To be a media-victim, photographed endlessly in hunted scenes. To have the world hunger for your approving, churlish nod…