The streets flash past, quick as the wind that will eventually whip the flags to shreds. The city we wish we could love grinds along, outwardly innocuous and pleasing, inwardly languishing from a historical disease. The doctors are in, perpetually.
Our days are packed to the brim with captures in focus, miscellaneous moments delivering the joy of seeing it clear. Then, we become opinionated. It’s a relief to feel, momentarily, that you are an expert on where you are.
This is the Hotel Allegro, the bricks of whose facade were mysteriously baby-blue that day, matching the blue of the Chicago flag.
