Sunday afternoon. 6:30. No good photo, unless I went down and took one, which I don't feel like.
There's a homeless guy sleeping in the recessed doorway of the parking garage for the furniture store across the street. I can look down out the window and see his feet sticking out from behind the shopping cart. Last fall I made the comment, shocking to myself, that homeless would soon set up shop in the then newly shuttered Chinese karoake place next door, after it closed and moved to Sandy. Now it seems strange that I wouldn't find someone sleeping there.
And now, they're right across the street. I feel like I am getting a balcony seating to the performance. Things moved fast.
I'm enjoying the neighborhood in that deep sense of awareness that comes from knowing that one's time in a given place is about to end. Even after I come back here, it won't be my neighborhood anymore. This apartment, and the view across the street, will belong to someone else. I'll be a stranger in the place where I am now typing. That's the way of things.
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