for Annie the best eyes a building ever had.
You know they're just trying to kick us out? I don't wanna call. I call them and then it gives them more reason to have me go. And I'm old and on this thing. This breathing box. This machine that gives me life. Ha! Some life. Attached to a box. They don't tell you to save, you know? Don't have kids okay? You have kids, you don't save anything. No I'm not gonna call them, have em get me out so they can sell the place. No one's here. The girl downstairs, a neighbor said she saw her crying over a lover. She's gone, and that window out front, a crackhead could slip into it. Never underestimate crackheads. I'm sure you've never had to consider them before, but they'll get in. They're like human accordions crackheads. This whole place is empty except for you and me, and maybe the guy upstairs, and I'm just stuck- with this box. It gives me the herby-jeebies. It's a siv. It's a cesspool. A siv. And they don't care cause they sold it, to the hasids. And they probably thought they'd get a million for it and then you sit down and they say 750. They change their number when they get to the table, and I'm not being racist or anti-semitic or anything. It happens. They get to the table they give them a lower number. They knock down this place build a high-rise. Drug dealers still live next door. Crackhead's sneak into it as the build it. And you'll go somewhere, back west of whatever, and me? I don't know where I'll go. WIth this box. I lived in Soho, had an antique shop in the West Village. Lived on Mercer. Lived on Jane. This was years ago, when my son Jesse was little. I could have had an apartment in Battery Park, rent controlled but I was stupid. And now they got Brooklyn and I got this thing. I got this box.