I sit in the winter and watch the condensation on the window build like "it" has something to prove. I look into the night, but the frost has become a barricade of invisibility. No moon. No stars. No sky. Nothing. I spend the night drinking the cheapest bottle of wine I could find at Safeway (SeaRidge, Merlot 2005. $3.86). Not bad. The night is all I have at the moment. Comfort comes in small measured quantities: content. That’s it. Then it’s gone. Content measures my minutes. Content measures my mood. Content measures the way I sit and sip cheap wine. I travel from thought to thought, from song to song. "The Stranger" spins, the needle to vinyl, the vinyl to amplification…somehow sound makes its way through the speakers and into my ears. I’m killing time, permanently. Stuck somewhere in the ether, watching and waiting. Wheels spin in neutral, uphill trek, downward fall. Candle light dances, creating a tango between shadows and the wall, though the shadows only want to sleep. Tonight, fire can’t help but dance and shadows don’t have a choice. END OF RECORD. Get up. Browse. Swap. Listen. Elmore James sings, "shake your moneymaker, you gotta shake your money maker," I laugh. I think about my place in history. I am a product of society. I am a product of "my" time. Where do I stand? (Not in my own biography, but in the world’s history) We often forget about the differences between biography and history; about the timeline in which we are apart of. The clock keeps counting, even though I know that the clock I’m looking at is 7 minutes ahead of "all" the other clocks in my apartment. I’m looking at it, so it must be true. I am consistently stuck in the past, living in the present; thinking about the future. The place I currently am is always the place I think I should be. The place I currently am, is always questioning the past. These two statements should not be able to co-exist, yet they live and breathe, and exist. The night is all I have at the moment; the night is gone before I know it.