It must be a song, played with a curfew-cheating stealth and sung in those butt-strangled voices the old guys had. There shouldn't be any parts for fiddles or horns because the kind of music i mean doesn't live in halls or theaters. It's the personal music those old men talked more than crooned when they were entertaining themselves to fight the loneliness.
The night air had a thick softness and the smell of stale smoke from the factories that had been busy in the day, and the smell of cheap whiskey and dead cigarettes and Philadelphia springtime.
As matters stood life offered very little aside from an occasional plunge into luxurious sensation which never lasted for long, and even while it happened it was accompanied by the dismal knowledge that it would soon be over.