Red Room Where the Writers Are

San Francisco in the minds of many conjours up images of Golden Gate Bridges and Seaside views; of Active faultlines and Busy streets. The city of the impossible, as I call it,  is the only city I know where a small town denzien feels welcomed and a big city dweller feels at home. A person whose miles away from home can find a tiny, little slice of something familiar on a street, in a pie or in a person's eyes.  San Francisco is a mishmash of everything, its the only city where harmoniuous coexistence between Stately victorian homes and post-modern concrete structues exists, where the wealthy drink coffee at the same table as a starving artist, where opinions are agreed upon, debated about and deconstructed all in the same conversation. 

During the day, San Francisco has on its 3 piece suit and tie just like any other large city .When the sun goes down, however, San Francisco swaps the suit for some jeans and a tee and becomes something even better. With the romance of Paris, the energy of Tokyo and the carefree spirit its been known for all these years, it becomes a nighttime garden party of of different people, different things all under the spell of the city, in the search for a good time. Everyone is partying on the streets, celebrating life itself for both what it is and what it could be. As the night progresses, San Francisco delves its dwellers into an even deeper spell, until they crash to the floor, covered in the remnants of thier nightly antics. Many of those that fall, however, neither regret nor lament thier time spent under the night time spell of San Francisco when the sun comes up.

 San Francisco is the only city I know that has the ability, the the patience and the magic to make wonderous things happen out from the impossible.