James and I were walking up an eerily desolate Hollywood Boulevard this morning on our way to get coffee and pastry when we happened on this handsome vagabond smoking a blunt and imploring us to read a note he’d taped to the wall of a storefront. He looked like a homeless Henry Rollins. “We’ll read it on our way back,” I told him. On our way back, the man was gone, but this note was still there:
