The crazy guy who lives with his mother in the house on the corner started yelling again; I could hear him because my windows are open. It really didn't last long. And then a little bit later a fire chief's truck wailed past the house. One time his mom called an ambulance to come pick him up. We think he tried to hurt himself. I wondered, after the truck kept screaming down the road, if his voices told him the sirens were for him again. How freaky would that be? Thinking that the sirens were coming for you. I don't like the thought of him living so close. It's easy to forget about him when he stays inside and doesn't walk down the middle of the road, yelling at the top of his lungs. But then I feel guilty for wanting to shut him up because no one should have to live like that--over forty years old, living with your mom and her yippy dogs, hearing voices, and not being able to go outside. My overactive imagination puts him outside of my window, right out on the street in front of the house. Everything in me wants to turn that light off so he can't see in, but then the part of my brain that isn't lizard keeps saying "he's not there, numb-nut. Tough it out."
Maybe I'll put down The Big Sleep and read something fluffy for tonight.
I wish my curtains would stop floating open. They're the only sight barrier between me and the crazy man on the street.
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