Why does every emotion live across the street from me? I stare every day over my morning coffee in this blank apartment trying to stay awake, alive. And the apartment across the street has a window, an open window, and I spy inside and glimpse the colors.
I remember having those here living with me. How though can I trust memories of feelings I've forever lost to the next building? Can I? I feel their echoes. But when I go downstairs the pancakes will be flavorless and blandly white with gray thick nothing syrup drizzled all across them. I'll have to eat to stay alive but don't think I like it one bit.