He looks like a brick-layer. Shiny, and black.

The kind of black that only becomes that black after endless hours in the sun.

His world seems to revolve around a bird that he keeps in the window. I used to abhor that bird and wish carnal sins apon it in the morning. Now it’s like a chime. Or like any of the other sounds from the city seeping up from below.

At first you cannot sleep through the dull sounds of cars gliding, foreign accents vloeking (how does one know what swearing is in a different language – by instinct?) and crescendo-ing and echoing like the wind pumping through the corridor once more.

I, with X-ray vision imagine I can see through the apartments to the back, where the stairs and real corridors must be.

Polished with the Red Cobra.