Seasonal.

An old friend of mine was once asked how he always managed to go out with beautiful woman. His answer was that he only asked out beautiful women. Playing music on subway platforms. Seeing performance art of questionable merit in venues of questionable legality. Shopping for stolen records on 6th ave. It's easy to offhandedly complain that the city I've lived in the last 20 years has changed, but it really has. Winter is a bad time of year to try and change your perceptions of what's around you, and to wander out there to find what's taken the place of those memory sources, because it's cold out there. It was always winter back then, but I don't remember ever being cold. Even in George's apartment in Philly, where you could see your breath in the bathroom, and we all slept cuddled up in sleeping bags on the floor, the memory of cold is just an idea more than an actual, physical feeling. I think I came home after work tonight because I thought it was too cold to go somewhere else, not because it actually was cold. The idea of cold is defeating the reality. I don't have any memories of summer in the city. It's warm here in my apartment. There are no beautiful women in here. They're with that 18 year old who just moved to the city, braving the year-round winter.