Night again, a few scotches under my belt, ranging from one end of the apartment to the other: at the north end something close to privacy, the small comforts of the den and TV; the south end gives out to windows on three sides, the familiar view of street and corner and the facing buildings made only slightly strange by the hovering dark and the traffic light’s traffickless wink from red to green and back again. Books stand mutely on their shelves and various devices charge against the day to come. We live in expectation: one more day, no more.