You could tell it’s almost midnight without looking out: the snicker and uproar of drunk yobs, obscenely burning their youth; monotone ostinatos of a lonely blind organ grinder, playing some obscure opuscule, accompanied by a sad sporadic coin ding!, which somehow made the grinder sound even more pitiful, as if it made him even poorer; distant yet vocal hollering and haggling of merchants and mountebanks, both selling crap, whether it’s an overpriced ’antique’ lamp, or a Potency Potion, ’the most Potent in the world’, to other curmudgeons and hags, because all the youth are out drinking and copulating, and all in the middle are out drinking or copulating or working night shifts hopelessly or, like me, trying to get some peace to read, write, or go to sleep, goddamit.

Ah, the ostinato of adolescent ardor wants naught by an opuscule's way but is wont to abstinence of virlie verities; a yob's yearning seldom peddles more than a mountebank's maudlin micturation on the solid hopes of a hapless connoiseur.

That yob's ostinato, opuscule of a minor mountebank, was yet to taste of hormonal felicities, and in due course even if formal felicitations for his future ditties would accrue, obviously his oeuvre was still wet behind its ear and teeming with jejune voluptas at this green hour.