My neighbour said she was going home. The night before I guess she was having a going home kind of party, for all I could hear in my small single bed room was the sound of mechanical grinding gears. People will listen to anything these days. They’ll listen to anything whilst forgetting to invite me.
I didn’t mind anyway, we didn’t get along too well. I knew all her favourite albums, her favourite shows, her sleeping times, her waking times, her self doubts, her love of the stars. These walls were paper thin, a little grease and I bet you could see right through them.
But as the dust on my shelves floated off into the air to create a sneeze inducing snow fall, I had to get out and bang on her door. When the walls shake, it’s just too much. Even if I was invited I would have made a comment in her ear. Perhaps someone needs to sleep? Perhaps the walls need some rest?
But when I banged on her door, it simply fell flat onto the burnt out floor. The TV was on fire, the bed was in pieces, and the ceiling was no more. As I squinted I saw her hurtling away from me. She was going home alright.
I returned to my room to deal with the unbearable silence. I looked outside and I could only see the city lights. The parted clouds had joined hands once more.