This blog is an Odeon-esque café outside of time; Hemingway and the Fitzgeralds drink cocktails at the bar while Austen and the Brontës sip tea over manuscripts and Man Ray and his Dada chums have loud spontaneous conversation which no one quite understands and Wilde shouts everyone another round. Pasternak quietly pens poetry as he muses at the beauty outside while Dylan Thomas drags a cigarette and various aristocrats, revolutionaries and literary characters stroll in and out. Romanticism dons one wall while surrealism lines the other; the faint bop of the Charleston can be heard from a room towards the back while a string quartet plays by the entrance. Enjoy your time here.
I can see in you the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close set bars of a cage, a vivid, restless captive. Were it but free, it would soar, cloud high.>