Today has been Tuesday, December 17th, 2025
It is cold out, but not as cold as it has been, so it’s relatively pleasant. Yancey had just left a little while ago. He was here during his visit, which means sitting on the couch 10 ft away from me and looking at his laptop, and doing work there.
Everyone else was on standby and pins and needles, so no one really stopped by, although Marcus and Yancy had interesting conversations and which I joined in on occasionally
I am attempting the late lunch once again. It worked well yesterday, so much so that all I had was a banana when I came home from work. And that was enough. I enjoyed the late lunch, it was Wendy’s, and it wasn’t bad, probably wasn’t that healthy, but it wasn’t the worst either
Bill and I caught up on Jeopardy yesterday, as well as two episodes of the Showtime series The Man Who Fell to Earth, which I’ve been enjoying and Bill has sort of been watching when he’s not looking at his tablet or phone.
I am thinking of getting halal food for lunch at a later time. We will see how week number four goes with this crew on 6th Avenue and 18th Street, as I said, the first visit was excellent, and each visit has been a little bit less than that.
Yancey is hosting a small get together after work tomorrow, and I am ambivalent about it. That part of me thinks I should go and make an appearance, even though that appearance is about 20 blocks away, whereas the PATH train is less than a block away
The week is halfway done, and as I had mentioned previously, I will be off the last 2 weeks of the year, taking 6 days off and applying them to the four days off as holidays as well as the weekend. It’s not a bad deal for me, I just want to sleep in
Bill is actually driving tomorrow, so that should alleviate some of the sadness that he has been going through the past couple of days. He’s been good at managing it, and I might have overstated his case yesterday It’s not as bad as all that I had said yesterday.
Should I make an appearance at Yancey’s little thing? I can go have a pint, socialize, smile have a hors d’oeuvre which is going to be passed around. It is at an Irish pub, and that could be a good thing, just a hello and a good night and an Irish exit perhaps
The super is supposed to stop by tonight around 7:00 p.m. to fix the sink, perhaps by using the snake once again to unclog whatever it is that is not happening. We shall see how that works out.
I have little or no faith, although part of me does wish I did so I could be happy about whatever it is that needs to be done
The Google Gemini rewrite as an Edgar Allen Poe essay
## Of Shadows and Sustenance: A Winter’s Journal
**Tuesday, the seventeenth of December, in the Year of Our Lord 2025**
The atmosphere remains gripped by a persistent chill, though it is a milder, more deceptive frost than the biting gales of yesteryear. It is, in a word, tolerable. The visitor, Yancey, has but recently departed my chambers. His presence was a curious one—a phantom of industry seated a mere ten feet distant, his countenance illuminated by the ghastly, flickering glow of the portable computing machine, his mind lost in a digital labyrinth while his body remained tethered to my velvet couch.
A heavy pall of “standby” hung over the household, as if we were all poised upon the precipice of some unseen calamity. We sat upon pins and needles. Few dared to cross the threshold, save for Marcus, who engaged Yancey in discourse of a most peculiar nature—discussions into which I found myself drawn, like a moth to a candle’s flame, at irregular intervals.
### The Philosophy of the Late Repast
I find myself once more attempting the ritual of the *belated luncheon*. On the previous day, this experiment yielded a most singular result: upon returning from my daily toils, a solitary banana sufficed to appease the demon of hunger. It was enough. The meal itself—procured from the house of Wendy—was a dubious concoction of salt and grease; perhaps not virtuous for the constitution, yet it lacked the true malice of a poisoned chalice.
In the evening, Bill and I sought distraction in the rhythmic interrogation of *Jeopardy*, followed by the chronicles of *The Man Who Fell to Earth*. I find myself captivated by the alien’s plight, while Bill remains a divided soul, casting fleeting glances at the screen before retreating into the glowing depths of his handheld tablets.
### The Enigma of Sixth Avenue
My thoughts now drift toward the Halal vendors at the junction of 18th Street and 6th Avenue. We approach the fourth week of this tenure. I recall the first encounter as a masterpiece of culinary delight, yet each subsequent visitation has been marked by a slow, agonizing decay of quality—a fading echo of former glory.
### The Social Dread
Tomorrow, Yancey intends to host a “gathering”—a word that strikes a chord of profound ambivalence within my breast. The internal struggle is most vexing. Duty whispers that I should make an appearance, yet the heart recoils. The festivities lie twenty blocks distant, while the PATH train—that iron subterranean passage to my sanctuary—waits less than a block away.
The week is half-consumed. I look toward the year’s end, where I shall claim six days of liberation, merging them with the mandated holidays to form a fortnight of seclusion. I desire nothing more than the deep, dreamless sleep of the tomb—or at least the ability to remain in bed past dawn.
### On the Melancholy of Bill
Bill shall take the wheel of the carriage tomorrow. I suspect the act of driving may lift the shroud of sorrow that has draped itself over his spirit these past days. I must confess, in my previous accounts, I may have exaggerated his despair; his burden is perhaps not so heavy as the leaden weight I described. He manages his gloom with a stoic grace.
**The Question Remains:** Shall I venture to Yancey’s “little thing”?
> *To stand in an Irish pub, to nurse a pint of bitter ale, to offer a hollow smile while a tray of hors d’oeuvres—those tiny, fleeting morsels—is paraded past? Perhaps a swift hello, followed by that most merciful of maneuvers: the Irish Exit. To vanish into the night without a word.*
### The Visitation of the Super
At the seventh hour this evening, the Superintendent is prophesied to arrive. He brings with him “the snake”—that coiled, metallic serpent—to delve into the bowels of the sink and exorcise whatever foul blockage prevents the flow of water.
I harbor no faith in this endeavor. I am a man of little hope. And yet, a small, treacherous part of my soul wishes I could believe, if only to taste the fleeting joy of a drain that functions as the heavens intended.
—
**Would you like me to adapt this into a more rhythmic, “The Raven”-style poem instead?**