There's something in the glowing night, this orange-lit city; The Big Orange. I think that's a better name, what the fuck is The Big Apple supposed to mean anyway. At night you can see it from a county away, orange lighting up what should be dark and blotting out what should be stars. If this city were on fire it would look virtually identical. You can't see smoke at night, which makes fireworks less terrifying and reminds you less of their relatives, the War Weapons. I say Kudos to the inventor of fireworks, and I try not to say Kudos to anyone, ever, because I don't know what the fuck that means either. Guy probably blew himself up anyway.
The slow wind, winding through the archways of train trestles, in through one of my windows and out through the other, the cross-ventilation I'm told of, warned about, warned of the necessity of, the wind carrying the rumbling squeal of the late trains, and the odd accordion whine of buses pulling through the lights on the corners.
Inside every apartment across the way, the newly constructed condos, is a screen, and eight feet away from it sits a bachelor, watching scenes of day and night, so for them the day never really fully ends. Sleep is done with the TV on, a necrotic creeping of fingers of light, awash in reaching images, a narcotic halo. Waking up to shuffle off at 2 or 3 or 4 to actual bed, until the rise of Real Light.
From my window, The Bachelors have all set their TVs up to my left, and they all sit to my right. I wonder if they met about this, if there was a Bachelor's Building Meeting, or if they did an Internet query on Optimal Giant TV Placement For Single Males. None of them ever look out their windows, as far as I can tell, as far as I can see.
You get cold at night, and sometimes you sweat through your sheets. It's ok.