Such a cold, literally cold, place. Why is the lobby so cold? Tonight it is about 33 degrees out, but the temperature in here is the same as it was when it was 80 degrees out.
33 degrees. That's what I am. Not extreme enough to change something but still uncomfortable.
I'll stay in here until the too-old-to-be-a-janitor black lady comes in and laughs at me at four-thirty in the morning. She's so sweet, I hope they pay her well.
And now, as amphetamine salts do their magic on my neurotransmitters, I sit in the dark of the lobby and wait for her, so I may smile back and be happy about where I am right now.
Mahler's 2nd Symphony resonates through my being and I write about he was a failed composer while he was alive. Yet his music has moved me to tears, and I feel I haven't the justice to write about him for some meaningless project.
At least he didn't die as abruptly as Mozart of Schubert. Although Schubert did have it coming, with all the sex and drugs he consumed his time with.
No sleep for me tonight. I blew the chance.
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