The toddler upstairs locates a recorder and launches a one-boy parade.
The next door neighbor decides that it’s time for him, and for the rest of the apartment complex, to fall in love again with the Destiny’s Child song catalog.
My head bangs against the wall and/or the heating pipe when I startle from a dream. The heating pipe is worse because it tends to burn.
The woman living below my bed wakes up her children for school, everyone in her household already combative at 7am. The heating pipe that vertically connects our apartments carries her voice to my ears in muffled, yet somehow still booming notes, giving me the impression that I am crunched upside-down inside the womb of a terrible mother, and I feel free to dread the rest of my life.