This morning I incorporated a radio interview with Bloomberg about what happens when it snows into my dreams. I think lately, the radio has more frequently woken me up by turning off after 2 hours, than when it turns on.

Today I got together with old pal Mr. Mottel for some music playing. He requested we set up the old drum kit, which a few months ago was drawn and quartered, its limbs sent to opposite corners of my room. I was a bit nervous about doing this, recalling the veiled threats and fuming anger from neighbours when I used to play, but thought hey, um...screw them. To ease the burden for our fellow dwellers of the inside 'U' of the building, I draped a sleeping bag over one window, and a sound absorption blanket over the other (the first time I've actually used it). For a while Mottel played drums and I abused the guitar, with mostly incidental correspondence. Then we switched it up, still no problems. Then the bedroom door opened. That's odd, I thought, considering there's no one else here. It was a neighbour from the 16th floor; I had left the door unlocked and he had become desperate enough to simply walk in here to tell us "the walls are shaking." He was relatively calm about it, though obviously distraught under the surface, so I agreed to stop. Strangely enough, I don't think I've ever seen this neighbour before, and I wouldn't have any problem with never seeing him again.