--
--

5:06 PM 11/18/1919

The sun is yet on its way dipping within the cracked horizon. I have just moved into the boulevard, but I must admit, many variables in this place have raised eyebrows, or so I think. I have paid a visit to the local photography studio, owned by two young Parker brothers. Their warm greetings and neighborly behavior blinded me from their rummy and anomalous side. One thing I noted was their collections of framed pictures; they left no room whatsoever on the walls.
Mr. Franklin, the owner of Breyers Bakery, seems like a nice fellow. He was a little heavy, pardon my impudence, yet sweet and forthcoming. His personality compliments the pastries he bakes rather well.
Right before I left, I asked what inspired him to give the bakery such a name. Mr. Franklin smiled and said, "Ah, old Breyers goes a long way, all the way back to Philadelphia."
I found Salina's Salon to own a relaxing and homelike atmosphere. The manager sure was a hard-worker, which surprised me, for I never knew a woman would not mind breaking a sweat. She had hair so large and fuzzy even a hair-tie would not collect it properly. When I attempted to converse, all she could talk about was a gal named Annabelle. I left, for I do not give a bother about Annabelle.
The tailor shop nearby has proven to be rather useful. I bought myself a new bowler hat, as mine was now ragged and frayed. Some of its displayed products had an ornate yet a modest touch, particularly the hanged dresses. Mr. Alabaster merrily mentioned that he has reached the ripe old age of forty-eight, and that he will be hosting a birthday party in a few days. I promised that I would be attending, but a part of me figured that promise would soon be broken. That part was right.
Crescent Cafe lures me in such strange ways. The enormous staircases and elaborate, decorative wallpapers kept calling upon me; or perhaps it was the cakes. There, I met a fair lady by the name of Melody, who seemed to be in her early twenties. We shared a pleasant chatter, a simple activity between newfound mutuals. I asked her what was her husband's occupation, yet she told me she was unmarried.
"Why, what is a woman without her husband?" I scoffed.
After recieving a hard punch, I ought to learn a lesson about manners.
