Outside it is cold, an anxious wind blows unceasingly between the towering hotels and offices and immutable monoliths of steel and stone and glass. I am at rest on a bed on a bed which too many others have slept in before me, the room is clean; warm, with an atmosphere of almost comforting sterility. I appreciate the modernist style in which the room has been decorated, abstract paintings adorn the walls. I would appreciate them, too, but the thought that they have been replicated a thousand times over somewhat detracts from their usual charm. The curtains on my window are drawn half shut; little squares of illumination break the otherwise monochromatic void. Chairs and desks and shelves and lamps are arranged therein, forming strangely atypical patterns; I can imagine their warmth, an atmosphere relatively unknown to me, I am unsatisfied by this little room, no matter its amenities.

An old Billie Holiday record crackles softly to me; gently coercing me into my exhaustion. It is beginning to snow outside, there is wind. Nature has permeated the mess of streets and lights, clawing mournfully at the windows, singing muted duets with my music. Whispers, echoes, somnambulant harmonies; my imagination, my depravity runs wildly with them.

Lefellow

March 13, 2011 at 3:22 PM PDT

Great writing. Where's the rest? I want to read some more.