’ve written a fair amount on this blog about my Brooklyn apartment. It’s a nice place, a frustrating place, an unlucky place, a beautiful place. I spent the first six months in Williamsburg kind of hating the neighborhood, feeling alienated and separate from the hipsters in their giant sunglasses and the Puerto Rican and Dominican families who gathered on their stoops. Trash made me angry. Graffiti made me angry. Urban grit at premium prices made me angry. Eventually, I relaxed. Williamsburg is actually a great place to live, especially if you like bars and restaurants, since that’s pretty much all there is here. That, and high-end stores. There are about 20 upscale boutiques for every wildflower. That’s fine. If I want green, I just go to Central Park.

In today’s Morning News, I wrote a story about my apartment. It’s not so much about my apartment, per se, as the woman who lives across the hall from me. She’s dying. Have I mentioned this? It’s a little unsettling. I worry about her, even though I’ve never met her, never even set eyes upon her. She’s still my neighbor. Right?