How nice to enjoy the last of the year’s verdure in my new home. This place is like a suburb, only in the city. All around are solid brick homes and wise, centenarian trees that canopy the neighborhood, keeping it safe. Whenever I take pictures of things I always stand back up and find someone staring at me quizzically.

I wonder what other people the maple tree outside my window has watched in this apartment, who it has waved its branches to in salutation as people in various waking states have talked and eaten and slept and kissed and danced and fought and entertained, and done the strangely intimate things people do at home. I know the girl before me had red hair, that purple cherry kind. I learned that from the bathtub.