It's four in the morning, the end of December,
I'm writing you now just to see if you're better.
New York is cold, but I like where I'm living;
There's music on Clinton street all through the evening.
I hear that you're building your little house deep in the desert.
You're living for nothing now, I hope you're keeping some kind of record.
Yes, and Jane came by with a lock of your hair;
...