The city pulses and throbs,
Outside my seventh floor window.
Sleep escapes me – everything from the occasional wail of a siren, or the honk of a horn, to a faint whistle in the far off distance – keeps me from drifting off.
Even the Metro’s rhythmic trundle of wheels on steel tracks that buckle tired railroad ties, tethered beneath – keeps me awake.
The old wood supporting the train, creaks and moans, protesting the weight of an era of passengers who have relentlessly traversed The City of Magnificent Intentions, the beautiful Capital of the World.
And, when my ears become immune and my eyes finally droop, the air conditioner in my room rattles on and hums her own tune.
The percussion of a city from a hotel room, reminds me of the musical, STOMP. It is all at once both mesmerizing and environmentally overloading, and I am completely lost in it like writers are when they try to find words that describe what their senses see, hear or feel.
When I can’t sleep, I write. And, when I write, sleep most certainly never comes.
Good morning from Washington D.C.