Cold, rainy, night

Cold, rainy, winter night. Apartment windows glisten from the wetness and jazz emanates from the piano. The air feels sharp and rigid, the sounds of the urban jungle echo through the streets. Sirens, whistles, calls, voices, whirs, revs, and rolls. All abstract noises that can have no meaning individually, for they could never be contextualized, so they coagulate into the primal hum of the jungle. Here, in my sanctuary, I have nothing to do but to think. No tasks beyond self-imposed ones that my mind needs tending to. I am a monkey in his tree, listening to the sounds of the jungle around him and doing nothing but thinking.