Every morning, on my way to drowning, I would pass a man.  This 
man is an old man, and he's missing a few bits and pieces.  Every morning 
he sits on his window sill (which is actually a red wig). 
	"I built this with my own two fingers," he'd rage.  I stood across 
the street with my breakfast on my shoes, every day.  I was getting closer 
and closer to obsession with this man.  He sat on his "window sill", 
completely motionless for ten seconds.  (Of course I timed him.)  On the 
eleventh second on the eighth hour of the day, he snapped his grungy 
mouth wide open.  After his dusty saliva started to roll out from the crack 
of his mouth, he began to form silent words with his lips.  First, the words 
were slow, but of course, they became faster and faster.  His face would 
get contorted and angry as he waved his thick brown tongue back and 
forth.  (It was QUITE disgusting, for it was coated in a sheet of grey 
mucus.)  He would suddenly stop, and quickly began to laugh to himself, 
enjoying it immensely.  (A quite audible "hehehe".)  The laughter soon 
faded, and that old man went back to his tongue-work.  I, as usual, would 
then take my presence elsewhere.  Today, though, I had become so 
intrigued by this man, I decided to speak a few words with him.  I crossed 
the street (on the fading crosswalk to be exact), and stopped in front of 
him.  I didn't even have to utter one word before he said to me,  
	"You know,  I'm chemically imbalanced."

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16 Renford Road (four)
Page 19