I’m a bit frazzled– and running ten minutes late– when I emerge from the gloom of the graffiti-covered stairwell into the gorgeous rooftop of Daniel Sullivan’s Brooklyn-based castle. Both of them are already there– Daniel in mirror aviators and his iconic Prada cowboy boots (with spurs), Dorian in his usual ensemble: red jeans and red Che Tshirt turned inside out so the revolutionary’s face is touching his chest. “It’s like he’s kissing me” he says, by way of a hello, and offers me a smoke. “Are these Cuban?” I say, bringing the long, delicate cigar up to my nose and sniffing it.
We are doing our worst to establish delay. Like love (also illegal) it is needed to go on. Among other things, the Law is spit on and then ignited inside of this pocket.
–Dakotah Savage–