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Description
I’ve always had more luck drowning my sorrows with music than alcohol, but a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon sits in front of me nonetheless.  The clock has just finished striking eleven, and I can’t remember seeing a more tenebrous night.
Beethoven’s tenth string quartet is playing.  I’ve had a hard time choosing to what to listen.  The tenth, though, was optimal.  It’s pensive, melancholy, sad, a little hopeful, stormy, has its moments of shear pain, and resolves well.  The thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth were immediately out due to their endings, which were too turmolic, too triumphant, and unsatisfying, respectively.  The other that entered consideration was the eleventh, but that would have been too upsetting to hear.
My eyes are still watery, but that isn’t nearly so bad as the burning lead in my stomach.  I feel like I could vomit.  I take another drink of wine.
As I drink more, I decide that I should be listening to the third movement of the fifteenth quartet.  I next feel compelled to wander outside, into the forbidding caliginosity, but before I make it to the door, I fall down and begin bawling.  My head aches, but rather than by pain, it is gripped by grief.  Slowly, I rise again to my feet, and continue, resting my hand on a bookshelf for support.  Outside, I sit down on the porch.  It is colder than I expected, and I shiver a little.  The temperature is not uncomfortable; it feels appropriate, and helps me regain my composure.  After a while, I take a few deep breaths and walk back through the door, coming to rest on my warm sofa, where I spend the night.

Description
I’ve always had more luck drowning my sorrows with music than alcohol, but a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon sits in front of me nonetheless.  The clock has just finished striking eleven, and I can’t remember seeing a more tenebrous night.
Beethoven’s tenth string quartet is playing.  I’ve had a hard time choosing to what to listen.  The tenth, though, was optimal.  It’s pensive, melancholy, sad, a little hopeful, stormy, has its moments of shear pain, and resolves well.  The thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth were immediately out due to their endings, which were too turmolic, too triumphant, and unsatisfying, respectively.  The other that entered consideration was the eleventh, but that would have been too upsetting to hear.
My eyes are still watery, but that isn’t nearly so bad as the burning lead in my stomach.  I feel like I could vomit.  I take another drink of wine.
As I drink more, I decide that I should be listening to the third movement of the fifteenth quartet.  I next feel compelled to wander outside, into the forbidding caliginosity, but before I make it to the door, I fall down and begin bawling.  My head aches, but rather than by pain, it is gripped by grief.  Slowly, I rise again to my feet, and continue, resting my hand on a bookshelf for support.  Outside, I sit down on the porch.  It is colder than I expected, and I shiver a little.  The temperature is not uncomfortable; it feels appropriate, and helps me regain my composure.  After a while, I take a few deep breaths and walk back through the door, coming to rest on my warm sofa, where I spend the night.