I love hearing my neighbors have sex. It rekindles that basic connectedenss belied by clothing styles and social images. Nobody sounds glamorous when they're really going after it; we all transgress to the animals we are, sounding more like raccoons in heat... or grouse.

It's like, Yeah girl, I know where you are. Good for lucky you.

This would be my next door neighbor tonight. We share a bathroom air vent. She cries "Omigod" at increasing speed until, as infinity approaches, the syllables become inaudible and it's just a high-pitched flat tone.

The thing is, I can only hear her voice. The fact that I can hear her so clearly suggests she's louder than most, which she is. But, she's either with someone very quiet or by herself. Either way, I'm enjoying her abandon.

She's one of those people that runs toward others. What I mean is, her personality stretches out to between a 10- and 20-foot radius at any given time. If you're in that range, you're in her life. Sometimes, my kitchen and bathroom are filled with her cackle, or her gossip.

I know, for example, from a phone conversation that leaked through the vent, that things didn't work out with Mike despite much effort to hold onto the dream of having children with him. The breakup spawned a new approach to parenting: She's going to have kids with a pal who will be a good parent. Love is transitory, so why enter into a lifelong contract like parenting with someone you love?

(Psst: Whatever you can make work for you. But here's a tip: Love's not ephemeral, false projections are.)

(What I want to know is, what are the children of today's hipsters going to think of all the tattoos on their parents' fifty-year-old bodies?

"Mom, why is my skin all one color?"

I suppose they'll get them all removed by then.)

I'm just glad that, unlike the studio apartments, my bed is in the room farthest from the bathroom. Of course, it is right above the street.