Livingston, I presume

I sit alone in a hotel room about 12 miles from Edinburgh, sipping a cup of tea, munching on shortbread, listening to (of all things) Fred Astaire, thinking I should be hard at work preparing for tomorrow's meeting, but not quite working my way up to it.  It's just after 10pm and the sun is setting; it will rise again in less than six hours, thanks to its northerly latitiude (the same as Moscow).  The birds will rise with the sun; hopefully they will not wake me.  Again.

The hotel room is large but soulless; the king bed just makes the two small pillows look mean. A TV sits dark in the corner, a victim of its own success: What point is the remote if you have to walk over to the TV to get it?  The maid took the soap and left the ironing board, a trade which I do not appreciate.  She also closed the window, lest anyone squeeze through the four inch opening and make off with the ironing board.  (Or perhaps they stole the soap?)  Somewhere a compressor hums; I do not know if it makes ice or heat or water.  My eyes droop, fighting to stay awake for no good reason.

I am hopeful yet melancholy; my mind reels at both possibilties and loss.  Sometimes I feel in control, and sometimes I know better; life goes on and so do I.  The ashes are set about me, but I will rise soon.  Reborn, reformed, or just rebooted? The details do not interest me, only the patterns.  I seem to have made a life of starting over.

Billie Holiday sings a song to fit the mood.  If I were smart, I'd give in and go to sleep.  But there's another piece of shortbread, and enough water for another cup of tea...