My reflection trapped in the darkness of the coffee I nurse. The rain turns the lights of the city into a mosaic on the windows. The day's paper lists all the things wrong in the world. The list grows longer by the day. The difference between the morning and the night: coffee, whiskey. No other difference. The alarm goes off at 5 a.m. It feels like I just closed my eyes. It's dark. I sit up on the bed in the gloom. I get up. I shower. The driver waits for me downstairs, takes me to the Oldest House. An old man stares at me in the car window. It's raining. It's dark. Late at night, he brings me back here. It's not a home, it's a room where I sleep in, waking up just as tired as I was before going to bed. Endless grind.