I remember Carlton, seven residents and a floating population of seventy. Minds floated over hashish possibilities and our bodies floated together over someone else’s bed. Turntable circled inward: undulations of Bill Evans, solid plateaus of John Coltrane. Door-high canvases were ‘bottle series’ rested against walls, the years of plenty of Tàpies impasto. June was an attack of the munchies, midnight or midday, spending what was made in French kitchens or jazz clubs. I disappeared into New York, which was a book where sometimes rhyme happened. Weekend rehearsals at upright pianos up-tempo’d seventy times seven to new jobs or better offers.