so it's not a waste of time

john moved to new york in the aftermath of a snowless winter and took a room for two months in a dismal apartment. he hung on to a long-distance relationship while wishing it was over. one more than one occasion, he wondered how the walls of his apartment were put together. he wandered empty grocery stores hoping to see something that looked like food. john bought pasta and sauce and tried to plan ahead.

he slept on the floor, without a mattress, and with no furniture whatsoever. it was his only single room since college. he dreamed of filling it with ingeniously constructed furniture. he would build it out of cardboard and hope.

he took a few photos out the window, and occasionally heard the meowing of a stray cat. the neighbors played the exact same record weekly, blaring patriotic anthems from a long-forgotten film. other neighbors danced with their children in the streets to the vibrant sounds of their homeland. a homeless man occasionally slept in the unnecessarily large atrium of the building. on other occasions, john would do his laundry and meet the same man, sorting through endless plastic bags. this man was also a neighbor.

the days passed, and john's roommates warmed to him a bit. they told him of their desperate efforts with girls. they shared jokes that the understood a lot better than john did. the roommates told stories that were new york-centric, because they lived in new york. they seemed to be people who were meant to be here.