You know what I need for my apartment? I need a long-legged hippy chick with mary-jane eyes and slow lips that jingle-jangle like wooden beads of love. I need an up-and-coming middleweight. Blood ready hands from South Philly who weaves out of neighbourhoods painted in dulcet tunes of grey. You know what else I need? I need a songstress and a seamstress. A masseuse gentle to the touch. A master of ceremonies to play Prince and the stony twangs of ancient Pharaohs. I need a naked Susan Sarandon; young and on a golden rug. I need a Bert Sugar hat; old brim pointed southpaw to an odd Cuban unlit. I need everyday things too. Soap and suds. Pot cleaners. Plaster on the walls. Pictures in glassless frames. I need pesticide and insecticide. I need canister spray and shaky powder on earwigs and centipedes and Benzedrine driven cockroaches hungry for life and the jingling sounds of hippy beads. Apartment dweller, what do I got? Heaven and Earth and a life in between. I got a blog and thoughts to go with it, apartment dweller who I am.