I now felt a kinship with the late 19th-century French romanticists. I�d gone from a stubborn Holden Caulfield to a swooning Baudelaire.
When we first met, he was sleeping on an air mattress on the floor of his band mate�s kitchen with the intention of eventually renting his own place. After he had overstayed that welcome, he moved into my apartment without asking, and without my really noticing. Soon I missed my solitude, the contents of my refrigerator and the money I periodically lent him (he rarely had even enough for subway fare). But I allowed him to feed his vices in my home and with my resources as long as it meant that he would allow me to feed my vice: him.
Still, I maintained enough sense to push him (though not very hard) to find his own place. And it was during this time, on an afternoon walk in my Brooklyn neighborhood, that he and I passed the dilapidated Greenpoint Hotel
Source link: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/11/25/fashion/25love.html?ref=fashion
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