THe FReCKLeD FINGeR

As I sit here at my desk, or what IKEA led me on to believe was a desk, I stare at the brickwall.

Typical Monday.

This night, however, is very different from the rest as I do not count the bricks on said wall, but rather begin to think...

I remember learning in high school History about The Great Wall of China.  The most interesting fact I recall is that during it's grueling construction, workers and slaves died in the process but the building of the wall never ceased therefore the bodies of the dead workers would become part of the wall's structure. 

Now, the apartment building I am currently squatting in is over 100 years old and I cannot help but think about how many Italian immigrants lost their lives constructing this here building brick by brick... and are forever laid rest within it's mortar and bricks.

Here and there I could sense that the spirits of these Italians have been haunting my apartment and until this very moment, thought it was simply a coincidence that whenever I cook spaghetti sauce, it always splatters to the left.  What is to the left of the stove where the sauce (gravy to you Italian enthusiasts) continually splatters you ask?

THAT BRICK WALL!

What I'm getting at is that rent is super-fuckin-expensive when your building is lined with immigrant bones.