Ode to the blue sky outside my window

Why must you make sad on the inside,
you tempt me through the cold plate glass,
displaying your wares but never allowing my complete satisfaction.

Woe be the cold breath of the air-conditioning that saps the life from my skin.
Hark, the underlying hum of the lighting that frequents the room.
Forsooth, the otherworldly glow that brings out the less than ethereal qualities of my fellow audio inmates.

While the ever-ringing dial tone echoes in my left ear, I contemplate the spoon.
Its dulled curves seducing me like a jackhammer thrust into the cerebral cortex.

Suddenly there is no suitable numbers available, escape we must to the exterior,
but the blue has faded to black,
and the cold has enveloped the warmth.

So we ride.