My apartment. Which is not really mine. I rent. Have two roommates. But whatever. I'm just here so I can get to my job. Which is not really my job. I temp. Well I started as a temp. Then I was upgraded to something called permanent part time. But then I was downsized. Now I'm just part time - not permanent. So I guess I'm an unofficial temp again.

So for my apartment I pay my share of $550, which entitles me to my bedroom, which is not really mine, 1/3 of the kitchen, living room, bathroom, none of which I want, and 1/3 of a parking space, for which I don't own a car.

My bedroom overlooks my street. My street, I think, belongs to about 3.2 billion other people, all of whom seem to congregate outside my window in the morning, their sum murmur comprising about 1.2 million different languages. But that's OK, because, I don't mind murmur. It kind of blurs the jackhammer and steel thumping from the construction site of the forever-work-in-progress-building down the block.

This doesn't keep me from sleeping you see, because I get up at dawn. Well I used to get up at 9:00AM, because I work at noon, part-time, not permanent, but the fine demolition folks, they start drilling and banging and knocking stuff down at 5:59AM sharp each morning, so now I have a more reliable alarm clock.

Sure I'm up way too early for my lifestyle, but I've come to the conclusion that this is the best time to be up. Not to hear the birds. I don't think there are any birds on my street, unless you count pigeons, but who counts pigeons?? No, the crack of dawn allows me uninterrupted access to a full 3/3 of my living accommodations: kitchen, bathroom, and living room are all mine for the taking. Well at least for an hour.

I used to use this time to watch television. I can't anymore because one of my room mates is a light sleeper. Amazing how he can sleep through the Mount Vesuvius Construction company, the low flying traffic helicopters, La Guardia planes coming in for a landing, the background beep-a-thon from a backed up Grand Central and 4.2 billion conversations, but throw a little bit of NY1 into the mix, and someone wakes up in a hissy fit.

So what I do now is brew some coffee and sit on the couch. This is the time the heat comes on. It comes on twice a day, as far as I can tell, so it's not really the type of thing you want to miss. So I sit on the couch for a front row seat, snuggly with my coffee.

Cling clang clonk clonk. Cling clang clonk clonk. A true symphony. Of steam and pipes, and old wooden walls; peeled-paint radiators have never sounded so beautiful. It often makes ponder the alternative, of living somewhere with none of this noise and aggravation, a place with birds and fireplaces, a place with no neighbors nor roommates. But there is a strange phenomenon that happens when I go to this desolate region in my mind. I bore instantly.

Cling clang clonk clonk. The clanking continues - 1 more minute of heat until evening. How exciting. It's especially nice today because it snowed a few inches last night. And maybe it's just me, but with the sound of snow shovels scraping concrete and the steamy heat roaring to its crescendo, there is a certain comfort in the thought of none of this really being mine.

Well, not really, but at least I don't have to shovel snow.