The man in the neighbouring apartment is playing the guitar at the very moment I’m writing this. It is yet unclear which song he’s murde–, uhm, interpreting at the moment. Just for the record, his favorites include Ticket to Ride, Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door and, as of late, No Woman No Cry.

The man is a decent enough guitarist, but his singing is a different matter altogether. First of all, it’s not in tune. Second of all, he’s still singing. Third, it’s fucking 4 AM. Why can’t the poor bastard just go to bed? Thanks to his perseverance, I must have heard Ticket to Ride more times than ever before in my life. Come to think of it, my years have been remarkably devoid of budding nocturnal instrumentalists.

(A Completely Unrelated Yet Somewhat Amusing) Footnote: I still can’t for the life of me understand why the heating has to be turned off in the middle of the night. One unpleasant side effect of this is that it’s rendered nighttime visits to the loo unenjoyable. Nothing takes the fun out of bodily functions like sitting on damp, cold toilet porcelain and freezing your ass off. It’s not that I’m asking for too much, is it now? Just a cozy nice little place where I can relax and take a dump whenever I like.