Cold in the apartment. Listening to Les McCann and Eddie Harris. Lamp’s on letting off a little light. Not too much light.

Blinds are closed. No one sees in, and I do not see out. Only shadows on the walls and floor. A cactus stands in the window. Tomorrow, it will breathe in sunshine. Night will be over.

No sleep. On WKCR, they’re playing twenty-four hours of Monk. I keep switching back and forth between the tribute/ birthday celebration and old albums I have lined up on my bookcase shelf. Porgy and Bess by Miles Davis, Blue World by Coltrane, Sunday at the Village Vanguard done by Bill Evans Trio. My thumbs are getting dusty. Some of these I haven’t heard for a while. Yet, they have always been there for me in times of need. Loves lost, friends who’ve died, blue days, broken heart, they have saved me. I will forever be grateful.

There is silence outside. Drunks have gone home. Cars parked along the avenue. Leaves fall from trees in the midnight breeze. I hear a train coming through town. It mixes well with Monk playing Straight No Chaser. I pour myself a whiskey. Too late for coffee. Maybe too early. A shot of whiskey cures all; straight, no chaser.