It is here that I am. Existing, mostly in silence. Aside from the relentless and constant dripping of the shower faucet, and the occasional screeching of steam as it seemingly, painfully, escapes from the confines of the old radiators. Just me and these plaster walls which have witnessed so much. 70 or 80 or 90 year's worth is my best guess. The comings and goings of strangers, and decades, and the passing of so much time. Spirits hurdling along. Rustling. Pacing. Living in their time. Once being here, where I am now. Perhaps hungry and struggling, like me. Hungry for more than this, but content in being here just the same. Making the best of where they are in that moment. Right here. Peering out at the city below. Observing the fluttering snowflakes in winter. Basking in the spring sunlight at dawn. Mourning the fallen leaves in fall, and sweating and sweating and sweating in this top floor's summer heat. Baggy grey trousers and scuffed leather shoes. Faded, flowery dresses with spaghetti stains on the pockets. Floozies with bourbon breath. Children. Babies. Deadbeats and writers. Artists and dancers. Ordinary Joes and Extraordinary Janes. They were all here once, as I am now. I channel them. Acknowledge them. We share this one thing together now, in this place.
