Bay window

Some impressions from my new home in the student ghetto:

I've been thrust from my reclusive corner into the bustling human antheap. My bay window looks out on a street, and on the endless parade of "characters". People frop in with stories of amusement or harrowing hatred of life, sober and drunk, organized or stinking ot high heaven. You can hear the chiming of a distant windcatcher through the paper-thin drywall. buddhist monk saunters up the street, his Scottish beard flapping in the breeze; preachers of hellfire rise above the crowd not on soapboxes but puny-looking stepladders; nieghbours walk throuhg carrying chests of drawers leaving a trail of astral woodchips; babies shriek and I'm convinced at least two lines of cocaine are being consumed on this block; ceramic drums beat away against my ceiling; guitar circles gather and flounder on impulsive solos filled with dissonance. I am an intensely impractical person, but I had to assemble furniture--not intuitively assembled furniture, either. Tour buses occassionally pass; they get a good view of the hole under my room where they're digging out a new basement, apparently trying to turn this unassuming looking house into a grand subterranean tenement.

Consider: "..why is it that most of the people who are against abortion are people you wouldn't want to fuck in the first place?"