the first sip of coffee before anyone else is up

a perfectly ripe peach in august, the kind that drips

joe's plain slice, folded, eaten over the paper plate

prospect park at 7am on a tuesday

the weight of a good hardcover

people who have a take and can defend it without raising their voice

88% dark chocolate, the kind that makes you wince a little

walking home across the brooklyn bridge at dusk

inter tight at 400 weight

mint milanos

nora ephron

the paris review interviews

a blank text file and an idea

the way a room feels when the product finally works

zadie smith's essays, especially the one about joy

frank ocean's blonde, the whole thing, in order

people who build things instead of talking about building things

lucali on a wednesday night when there's no wait

a well-set table

the idea that taste is a moral category

saturday mornings with nowhere to be

my grandmother's handwriting

coltrane's a love supreme, side two

simplicity on the other side of complexity

the brooklyn public library, the one on grand army plaza

scrambled eggs, very soft, with chives

the long now foundation's clock project

a perfectly kerned wordmark

fort tilden beach in september when everyone's gone home

patti smith's just kids

the way old couples walk in the park, slowly, together

radiohead's in rainbows

di fara's square slice

products that explain themselves

a handwritten note on good stationery

the strand bookstore, the dollar carts outside

people who are generous with their knowledge

the moment between finishing a thing and showing it to anyone