"Honestly, what the actual fuck did I do to deserve this?" he croaks to himself, half-laughing. Then he lets out a most crackly sigh. He's hobbled (yet again!) by a nasty respiratory infection.

55 years old. Unshaven. Imprisoned. All on his lonesome in a dingy and utterly freezing third floor studio apartment.

He has neither the energy nor the ambition to reopen his laptop, despite solicitations and rapidly approaching deadlines.

He barely entertains the thought of emailing that poem to the government-supported, two-bit literary journal who'd approached him months ago.

And the script he's been working on for the latest pointless network reality show? That program that actually provides his meagre livelihood?

Who. Fucking. Cares? It can all wait. He feels like he could cough up a blanket. And why oh why is it so goddam cold in here?!

He squirms and slouches in place, struggling in vain to seek comfort. After he adjusts his thick tartan wool scarf, he tucks his clammy hands into his armpits. Then…CLANG!!! The radiator hammers to life, startling him upright in his chair.

Fuck. Finally.

Still, he waits an eternity for the room to approach any semblance of warmth.