Reading in a Cold, Desolate Night

The night was getting considerably colder when I found a decent looking reading space. It was a type of space I have been wondering around for in the last hour and a half. A courtyard lodged deep into the concrete masses of downtown, a haven for the suffocated office workers. I had founded it on the 4^th Street, between Congress and Brazos. Biting into a hunger managing rice cake I bought from a nearby grocery store, I began a closer examination of the space. Annoying drone of the courtyard’s artificial light sounded increasingly depressing. My neck began to hurt as I looked up at the surrounding architectures, all ugly brick structures. Skinny naked trees and the dead concrete benches seemed as lonely as I was in the cold miserable night. Really just concerned about finishing the assignment before I caught a cold, I ignored all the dread of the site to read. I instantly remembered that I hated reading. The space had four benches, but not a single table. The sits were arranged in pairs around a dirty trash can. My body was curled uncomfortably into a letter “C.” My hands and face were stinging from the frigid air. I sat there holding the printouts, unable to focus.

I was on the third page when a man walked out from an adjacent building; it had an exit at the end of the long courtyard. Then, I heard a loud truck engine from another adjacent building, a multistory car garage; its wall facing the courtyard was perforated, so the sound streamed through unhindered. My head turned once more as a car from the street turned into a courtyard, apparently, a third of the space was a 30-minuate delivery parking. When I returned my attention to the paper, I found myself hopelessly lost. I found myself sitting on a dead concrete block, miserable, confused, and indifferent.