This is for all those who shake the thyrsus and go mad at midnight, for those who should have been born a century ago in Paris. It is refuge.
A place for all of us poet-bohemians to sit, drink absinthe and tell each other how brilliant and fantastic we all are. There will be regular literary feasts, duels, and love affairs. This affair accepts no bystanders; we are here to connect in the dark of this cafe which resides in the backs of our minds and cracks open the dawn with our voices.
Come, if you are dreamers and spinners of lies. We will hold a chair and a cold glass for you.
We will all write together, and critique, and in general pat ourselves on the back for being much more brilliant than anyone else on this side of the Seine.
