You
there’s
a
man
in
the
floor
above
me
shouting
cocaine-‐driven
obituaries
at
the
sun,
believing
that
one
day
his
words
will
have
so
much
force
that
they’ll
come
to
life.
he
is
at
the
point
where
rational
conversations
end,
getting
wrapped
up
in
his
paranoia,
while
draining
dreams
through
a/c
vents.
every
morning
i
hear