I don’t believe I could tell you how cold it was in there if I tried.  I’m almost certain that my vocabulary isn’t extensive enough to do it justice.  There were nine inches of snow piled on the window sill from the storm the night before and I could quite nearly feel my meager body heat rising to the ceiling that towered fifteen feet above my head.  As the cold crept in the wall of windows that faced North, I noticed the flower arrangement that was still in perfect condition from two weeks ago.  Clearly this apartment is closer to being a flower cooler than a home. 


I’d been awake since the first hint of dawn in the East, patiently doing my work at the circular bar that served as a kitchen.  I scrawled words onto a torn and folded piece of butcher’s paper as best as my freezing fingers would allow, stopping periodically to warm my hands in front of a single parabolic space heater.


The familar tunes of Copeland blared from the TV that was suspended from the rafters by a network of chains.  As yet another train trundled by across the street, I looked dazedly at the fan shaped slice of mirror that faced the window and discovered that it was rattling like mad.  With a quick glance I noted that everything around the mirror was also rattling around and for a moment I was concerned that I would have to catch it all as it came tumbling from the smooth shelves.  Without turning from the mirror and its fellow rattlers, I turned the music to an even higher volume as I had done everytime a train passed.  It would appear to have become my single, constant companion.

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