She’s a lonely, bitter old woman.

She told my roommate once that she hopes dirt enters her eyes. Ironically, the woman’s eyes appear to be darker than the color of dirt itself, an illustration of what her soul must look like.

and for some reason, she believes my name is Thor.

The moans from her television seep upward, filling my bedroom at 3am.

I can hear every movement, which makes little sense considering the fact that we reside in the apartment above her. But I suppose the science of noise distribution is the only plausible solution to that thought. But I have neither the patience nor the time to research it. My point is, it keeps me up at night.

I compose a photograph in my mind of her slumped body, head thrown back in a deep sleep as the television blares. Deep reds and blues from the screen saturate the room.

Is it the youthfulness she sees within us that drives her mad? or is it the “children in the walls” that she heard before we moved in.

But I can’t think about that now.

Sleep now, dissect later.