New York is cold, but I like where I'm living, there's music on Clinton Street all through the evening

Today I had my last cigarette in a cold alley in Park Street by myself. I don't why, but it bothered me. The day started out well enough. I woke up early, was unusually chirpy. But as the day wore on, I started feeling this slight dread at the pit of my stomach. I kept thinking of myself in the pictures taken during my brother's wedding and wondered who that strange, ridiculously happy person was. She looked nothing like how I felt - which was, and is, something exactly the opposite.

Cohen's Famous Blue Raincoat played on loop inside my head all through the day. Even in the morning when the light looked fantastic and it was cold and beautiful. Then in the evening, when I walked down from Xavier's to the other side of Park Street, it was like someone cranked the volume way, way up.

I took out my guitar after ages today. I played the same old tunes I always play on any guitar, because I think, that's all I know, and that's all I'll ever be able to play. I feel sorry for the guitar. It should have belonged to someone else. Someone who wanted to be a rockstar. Or someone with a little more enthusiasm.

God, what a bloody waste of a day. What a waste of a life.