The exiled is doomed to repeat himself. When memory is the only view, sometimes we’ll look out the same window. It’s no secret I hate the elevators in my building so I often take the stairs. The stairs in this building are not very smart. On the east side of the building, the stairs go up through the laundry room and then down the hall and then up again. It so happened that last night, after walking Murphy, I took the stairs up. It’s not an uncommon experience but I was really struck by all the closed doors.

It’s a very strange thing to live in an apartment building. I pass so many closed doors that keep secret so many lives I can’t begin to know anything about. TV noises. Talking. An argument. A party. The silence in some apartments is the most intriguing. I spend my day in my apartment and behind that wall, above the ceiling, below the floor, so many lives, so many hopes and frustrations all around me.

There must be nearly five hundred apartments here. Right now, likely, somebody wishes they were not so alone. Somebody wishes they were more alone. Somebody is having sex. Somebody is taking a bath. Somebody, after working all night, naps. Somebody is looking for a new job. Somebody wants to quit their job. Somebody wants to tell somebody they love them. Somebody wants to tell somebody they don’t love them anymore. Somebody wants to move out. Somebody wants to travel. Somebody is packing to visit a far off place. Somebody is going through their yearbook remembering when they thought they were somebody. Somebody is out of milk. Somebody is writing a screenplay. Somebody recently lost their mother. Somebody is hiding porn. Somebody is watching the news, thinking the world has gone to shit. Somebody has found a new friend and thinks life is wonderful. Somebody studies. Somebody is finding God. Somebody is losing God. Somebody is thinking about piercing something. Somebody is looking forward to tonight. Somebody is regretting yesterday. Somebody lies and everybody hears. Somebody tells the truth but nobody listens. Somebody pretends to be something they are not. Somebody takes another shot.

Are bees social creatures? Or when they return to their honeycomb, do they just keep to their individual cells?

There’s so much secret life around me; and anybody lived in a pretty how town.

SS