Listens to French electronic music and drinks unsweetened coffee as a form of therapy

It's is 3 a.m. and raining outside. He sits near his computer, typing. It rains harder and the temperature dropps still. The chill becomes the cold that ate through flesh and twisted the bones, as if splinters from a fallen twig. He stands up and reaches for his black sweater knitted on a starry night by his grandmother as he, small and frail, slept on a burgundy velvet cushion by Granny's woolen skirt and by the warm crackling log fire as the autumn breeze swept through the grass, its soft rustle a lullabye nodding him off to sleep.
There is a knock on the dorr; 3 or 4 sharp rapps on the oak veneer.
The black sweater hugging his thin figure, he walks down to answer the door, violet mug of coffee in his hand.
He pulls the door open. The gust of cold, harsh wind temporarily blinds him. Above the tiny log cottage, the cresent moon smiles alone over the green hills dulled by lack of sunlight. A red balloon floats dreamily into the starry blanket of night sky, disappearing into the wispiness of moonlight. It seems to have stopped raining.