April 3, 2002
It is never completely dark. Sodium yellow seeps in front and back, yet paints the room moonlight blue: some weird colour-mixing thing, the pale walls a palette.
It is never silent. The Heath Robinson plumbing spits, hisses and knocks; the ancient, dust-encrusted AC growls in constant combat with the unseasonally-active heating; incoherent yells from pre-dawn drunks; nocturnal denizens of the 24-hour convenience store over the road; the sudden whack of trucks and semis hitting the ruts and bumps at all hours.
My empty London flat is pitch dark and silent.
Williamsburg, 3:30 am. Awake. Happy.