Untitled. (WORK IN PROGRESS) Edited 2012

An incredible burst of cold air through the open window stabbed through my wet hair. I shivered and pulled my stolen hotel robe tighter. Leaning out, I looked around at the dead street. I hate this part of town.  A joint I had rolled earlier rested on the mantle, but I didn't feel like smoking. Something about today was grinding at my knuckles, demanding some wonderful, terrible story or sketch to pour out onto the legal pad that rested on the coffee table. But I was too restless. Every time I sat down to write, the only thing produced was a look of disappointment and the constant clicking of a pen. All I could think of was how much I hated this street, and my third-floor apartment. The wind blew more frigid air through the window and I cursed under my breath, pushing a frozen cloud of whisper from my lips. I forced the stubborn window closed, and covered it with it's cheap curtains. As I untied my robe, I glanced at the legal pad and gave it a look one would give to a misbehaving child. I turned my back on it. As I dressed, my skin prickled with goosebumps at the touch of the air I had let in through the window. I threw on an old moth-eaten sweater and some sky blue boxers that some forgotten object of a one night stand had left and put a kettle full of water on the only working burner on the stove. I sat down at the coffee table and waited for the water to boil. I started doodling what eventually turned out to be an old beggar, reminiscent of the etchings of Rembrandt, but more applied to modern day by his dress and overall demeanor...