My Recluse Neighbor

From facing your past to finding your passion, in candid interview, life is always revealing itself, feeling as though I have been caught in a rainstorm out in the wilderness, as I search for my umbrella, it suddenly becomes overrated, for I am already soaking wet.

 Plunging into a studious survey of my life, the walls now holding the music from the piano man whom lives next door to me. The music adding an intoxicating charm. The piano man only talks to me when he feels obliged to, although I purposefully attempt to oblige him, every chance I get. 

I can feel his annoyance with me pulse all the way up to my front steps. Mostly our run - ins are when he is walking to the end of his driveway for his morning paper, the New York Times. I think he thinks of me as unnerving, the New York Times has nothing in it, in comparison to the list of dialogue of life adventures written inside of me. 

I imagine him pouring cognac into a glass every evening as he peruses that same paper from the morning. I imagine a smoking jacket, but no smoke. I imagine caviar beds on tiny crackers, and some invisible person playing a violin as he nibbles on the crackers. They would have to be bland stone white crackers, water crackers. 

I imagine, boring, as the piano begins playing again, and I sit on my sofa up close to the wall nearest his house, and I listen, to the purring of the music through my walls. I listen, to the recluse life that lives next door to me....and the piano never stops playing........and I, I never stop swaying to the sound of the keys, as his fingers play the lullabies!