My work was going on as planned, meaning I was doing what needed to be done at a natural pace. I hadn’t expected to have a roof over my head so fast. Not so long ago I didn’t even know I wanted a house of my own.

Some friends occasionally came by to catch up and watch the new additions to my clumsy decoration… And in the evening, I made sure to go walk my usual neighbor-watching-after walk.

It was the best time to stroll around, because all the houses were lit from the inside, offering all their treasures to the eyes of the passers by. There was the Hawaiian woman from Italy (or was she an Italian woman from Hawaii?) She didn’t change things around her house often, but it was always a pleasure to see her dogs running and when I walked by during meal time, everything looked so delicious I could almost smell it through the walls…

There was a comedian just passed the Italian/Hawaiian lady’s home. A handsome fellow that had funny words for whoever dared to listen. Sometimes I stopped for a good laugh, and left a message by the door before getting back to my walk…

Then there was an incredibly busy Russian by the river that led to the lake. He seemed to work day and night, changing this and that, planting flowers everywhere, sketching strange designs and sticking them to the windows for everyone to see. At first I would encourage him and point out what I liked best, but after a while, I decided to just walk by in silence. I was afraid to be part of the reason why he would go into a burnout (it was written in the sky).

I bet the Russian’s neighbor couldn’t stand him. That bitter guy was probably even happy to live next to a natural and endless source of annoyance like that. Ben, I think it was. I always thought he had to be a good guy deep down inside, but he hid it in an oignon layering of hate and bitterness. Always complaining, he was the guy to go talk to when you had a bad day… His was always worse, leaving you feeling better. Our bitter fellow had probably settled in the woods thinking he would live as a loner. But what would he have done without people to spill his bitterness upon?

A few artists lived side by side. Writing poetry, and spreading it around. And there was a girl that didn’t talk much, but when she did, she always punched.

Last but not least, each night I ended my walk by visiting Him’s place. He would show me the work done during the day. Sometimes, he would be out and I’d leave a few words on his wall, to let him know I was there…

And I’d call it a day after checking the messages left by other walkers while I was in the woods…

To be continued, igen…