On the balcony below, my neighbor's chair is empty, but hillbilly music rolls out from his open doorway. Soon he'll come out with his book and coffee. He'll be wearing shorts; when he goes out at night, he wears black, a cowboy hat and a rhinestone bolero. From time to time he cooks pasta and sausages for us.
I've been in most of the morning while the corroded broken down stove that gives off shocks is taken out. Being in here in South Beach is not like being in at home in Massachusetts. There's so much light; there's the little balcony; there's my neighbor's music--Hank Williams' voice broken up by the wind, a ship on the horizon, nothing between this shore and the coast of Africa.