The upstairs neighbors upset me from time to time, with loud bangs and scraping. But I’m on the top floor. Sound carries in weird ways which are annoying all the same.
Four young plants moved into the apartment a few weeks ago. One’s called Monstera Deliciosa and I can’t wait for it to sprout holes in its leaves. I check as often as possible, hoping to catch a leaf breaking the moment it happens.
Another plant lifts up in the morning with the sun, then shrugs when the light goes behind the buildings. Weird. Plants dance.
It must’ve been about the book the last time I wrote here. I gave up on poetry at some point last year, or gave up trying to make other people read it. Or gave up on making money. I’m trying to give up on every aspect except making them. See how much I’ve changed? I’m easy-going as a houseplant.
