Spring 2020

My neighbor is a white boy in his thirties. He always wears a hat. Always. He could be American, or from Northern Europe. His house is right in front of mine. Today he cleaned it all up. Even the windows. While I am writing this, he is folding the laundry that has just been removed from the dryer. He’s spilled all the clothes from the basket to the bed, as a child does with the basket of his toys. He looks like Pistoletto’s Venus in front of his rags. He turns on the TV and turns his head to the right as he folds, turns and folds, turns and folds. Turns and folds. He’s the only one in his hive who hasn’t succulents on the windows. He has a ghost-shaped lamp that hasn’t removed since Halloween. If we were in Italy I would already know his name, if he is American or from Northern Europe, what he likes to watch on TV, and also why he never takes his hat off.
Who knows if we will ever sing from the windows here.

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York City. My neighbor is where the sun is.


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