It’s so completely oh-so-quiet still & peaceful outside, through my slice of window by this keyboard, no one at all moving in the courtyard and the snow piled everywhere and some Christmas lights are still on out there. I have 3 CDs playing on random in my CD player: The Best of Leonard Cohen, George Shearing: Latin Lace/Latin Affair, Moondog. The window is open so I can get some fresh air. I work tomorrow at 6.30 AM. Andy is still in Indiana but he’ll be back tomorrow night at 5. I’m not thrilled about working tomorrow. I’m considering having another glass of wine but already I’m worried about a hangover. Might make sleep easier if I had another glass. I could chase it with some water. I love my new chrome dish-drying rack. It’s hot in here. I don’t feel like reading, though I have less than 50 pages left of “Glamorama.” I don’t feel like talking on the phone, or chatting with anyone online. I’m for sure going to unplug the phone before I go to bed. My apartment seems pretty cozy. I wish the night would just stretch into day with me in my apartment, nestled in, waiting for Andy’s knock on my door, and the occasional sound of an airplane overhead coming in through the window and now of course I realize that everything I’m writing sounds exactly like Brett Easton Ellis but I can’t help it since that’s what I happen to be reading at the moment. I ought to simplify my life & switch to Hemingway.