top of page
Dead Letter N 9 is a bar, yes, but really it’s
A conversational portal in a bar’s clothes
A contemporary nexus for next-world thinking
A non-stop unraveling of cerebral confetti
- with a Dionysian baseline thrumming away in the
next room
An old school hang, man
- a lingering in the parlor,
a soup-pan full of perspectives that have nothing - but might have everything -in common
If you’ll just take off your jacket,
unloose your mind,
move your feral limbs & stay awhile
To see what happens
through a stranger’s eyes
by the light of the rabbit hole
So when I text
“Meet me at the spot”
I know
You’ll know
Exactly what I mean
WORDS BY REBECCA ROBERTSON
//
IMAGES BY RAUL COTO BATRES
bottom of page