He ingests it. The tea slowly sedates him as for hours his eyes dust over the evening paper that only reports meaningless news of the demise of American capital, the horrible readings of the stock exchange and advertisements for things that he either doesn’t need or could never imagine being able to afford. And when he lowers the paper onto his lap he holds his own fragmented conversations that when mixed with hot tea, warm and comfort him. His eyes begin to sink as he grows tired of talking to himself and reading regurgitated headlines. The taste of his concoction is no longer tolerable. He slowly stumbles to his feet, sets the rum back in the pantry, hangs the tea bags above the sink and with nothing left to think about, retires for remainder of the night.
A Day in the Life
Just as his mind cannot work back to a time when he didn’t wear the same style sneakers; it also cannot stumble back to a time when he did not live roughly the exact same day. The memorized smell of spiced rum and tea leaves awakens him as he rolls over from the middle of his singly occupied king size bed to gently silence the crowing cock that rests next to it. A stretch, a yawn, “must be cloudy today.” A walk to the bathroom past the red glowingly empty walls and whisperingly desolate rooms of his apartment that lack everything; charm, décor, the essences of a woman, and unsurprisingly, clutter. Thoughts fail to invade his frailty as he moves on and steps through the tidiness to wash his nightmares away in the cascading water that flows from his shower. Lather, rinse, clean, the clouds drift, and he’s ready for another day.
After drying and dressing, Sidney or Sid, referred to by no one but himself, takes a seat at the kitchen table. It is completely empty with the exception of a spring-wound record player. Crank-Needle-Record-Music-Beauty.
 These fragmented conversations constantly circle around and remind him of his belief that he is luckiest man to ever have lived.
 Rooster shaped and sounding alarm clock. Sears &Roebuck
 His morning mantra. Whether winter, spring, summer, or fall, he recited these words every morning no matter what light or lack of it trickled down to his basement flat and protruded through the tightly closed Venetian blinds.
 Sidney had lived alone since his discharge from the army in 1945. No pictures, prints, mirrors, valences, flowers or anything close to resembling any of those things was present. No décor. Unless, of course, one could consider an immense safe that is buried into the wall, decorative.
 Three-quarters of a turn on hot, one-quarter of a turn on cold.
 When talking to himself out loud, he used this nickname when he referred to himself in the third person.
 Victrolaâ, circa 1930.
 John Coltrane’s “My Favorite Things.” Atlantic, 1961. One of the only records Coltrane put down his tenor sax and picked up the soprano for and also the only record Sidney had in his possession. With the exception of every Beatles album sold in the United States. Sidney believed that the Beatles music offered a universal language. And although some of their earlier work was completely simplistic and their latter work was more complicated and influenced by drugs-from song structure to lyrical content, Sidney believed that their entire catalog offered the most beautiful use of communication.