writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself

I received an incredibly lovely compliment earlier this week. It is amazing how something so simple can be so very touching. The best thing about it was that it was accompanied by absolute certainty that it was genuine, and reciprocated. Prehaps I cannot have everything that I want, but what I have is sure precious, anyway.

At work today, I got into an argument with a some colleagues about the essential elements of a contract. It went on for a few minutes and was fairly heated until one of them started laughing. When the rest of us looked at him questioningly, he said, pointing to me: "I think we should take her word for it." It was the first time there that I've gotten that automatic respect.

I'm having a hard time writing lately. Lots of ideas but nothing is coming out, at least not the way I want it to. It might have to do with the weird sleep I'm getting, or not getting. Or leftover stress about the house and job. If there's an obvious answer that I'm not seeing, fill me in.

This week's building, with details to come: 69 W 3td St. What is that thing on the top?

[the title quotation is by Franz Kafka]