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2002-01-06 || 12:09 p.m. || the apartment on the third floor knows you hang your underwear on the towel rack. || when i am in my apartment with the windows open i think of the carson mccullers story about the apartment building and its inhabitants. orange peels and a violin and a pregnant girl and an old man. except in this version it is the naked girl and her boyfriend yelling in gangsta rap voices at the football game on television, the girl who has fresh flowers and candles on her kitchen table and girl's night in activities in the bedroom (i imagine in depth sex in the city conversations, pillow fights, five girls slumped on a futon drinking zima and tequiza), the lady of the house next door tending to her compost heap late at night, the man below me with the circular chair and lights on at three-thirty in the morning. sometimes i want to make contact. sometimes i want to show up at a door with cookies and a floury apron and say hello, i am your neighbor, please talk to me because even the cat is ignoring me right now. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |