I have plenty of frying pans.

About six months ago I got a knock at my door. I don't ever get knocks at my door. To be perfectly honest, I'm not fond of people coming to my home, and this was unexpected.

I opened the door and was greeted by a woman. She was a small woman, thin build, plenty of grey hair. I'd guess she was in her early 60's. She introduced herself and proceeded to tell me that she was my neighbor, we share a fence near my bedroom window. We had some very minor chit-chat that turned into an odd conversation. She proceeded to explain to me, rather matter-of-factly, that she makes noise and cries at night. That I shouldn't be alarmed if I hear her. She apologized if she had kept me awake. She kept assuring me not to worry and that she was under doctors supervision, she even said that she should be in a hospital and was going to be going soon. To my knowledge Jackie never went to the hospital.

I have no idea what is happening to that woman. I was waken by her again last night. I grabbed a pen and wrote.

Crying, glass breaking.

Everyone knows the sound of a frying pan hitting the floor.

I was told, warned.

So I lay idle feet away, remembering my own depressions.

I cried, I broke...

I want you to have my frying pans.

It's not fucking fair my tortured little taker of sleep.