I can’t remember what came first: I stopped dating or going to the beach,
and honestly, I’m not sure that’s even something worth dwelling on
since, considering those measly three dates, there wasn’t much to give up on that front,
whereas it was the beach that made me stay here all those years ago.
But don’t worry; I’ll be fine. After all, I was raised in tough times—I can survive
a minor withdrawal.
I always know when my next-door neighbour is watching a comedy or when the couples downstairs
have burned their Sunday dinner. On the ground floor, there is a rather odd man who lives in his car
instead of the flat and keeps the building door wide open and the floor wet when constantly washing
or repairing his equally strange old vehicle. I guess, for a poet, living in a multi-apartment building
could be a great source of observations on people’s habits, but I will not lie, it also annoys the hell
out of me sometimes. I just hope that talking to myself out loud at four in the morning while writing
does not get anyone on their feet. All in all, I seem to fit in quite well here.
hidden pilcrow 