The acrid and thick air weaved with the night's fireworks displays continues to waft through the windows of my Spring Street flat, as I sit anchored to my desk facing the contents concealing it. Below, a crowd of rowdy revelers stagger onto the street, their laughter and cheers mingling with the persistent hum emanating from the Pride of Paddington public house, cast doubt on any rest.
The last fortnight has been a desolate stretch. My mind ensnared with the same motionless haze enveloping the streets below. I've not had an ounce to return sociably-speaking, and, regrettably, I've accepted this solitude as my inevitable companion in the days to come. My only semblance of company, the seldom-seen comings and goings of my fellow lodgers - their feeble attempts of conversation, in my belief, would only amplify my already profound irritability.
Reluctant though I am to concede, it appears I have embraced the role of a recluse. Whether this isolation is of my own making or the result of some enigmatic force entwining its shadowy tendrils around me remains unclear.
This is a translated passage from a french crime novel.