What I really need to talk about are the windows. They have become an obsession with me, not my windows, but everyone else's because I have only one, a narrow but tall window looking through a darkish corridor between our building and the one next door. So, my need for windows has grown slowly like a canker, emerging under my tongue quietly, forlornly, and small, untillike a stone it anchors heavily my entire bottom jaw, which is open and drooling for more glass, more view, more light, more life. For my life is often a quiet solitary one, one of little activity and much staring and gazing out of my one window. I look out this narrow view of life I have until I feel I am suffocating within the narrow echo of the long walls of the buildings that frame my view. I drag myself from my bed and with shaking hands I assemble an odd outfit of whatever lies dose on the floor and haphazardly garbed I beckon my always-companion, my service dog Monroe, who steadies my pace by letting me rest my hand on his back. We go down the street, past the usual herd of drug dealers and buyers, past the wandering homeless and the scrappy pigeons, past the scatterings of trash to the muddy, soggy park. While I lean up against the chain link fence surrounding the soccer field with my hands stuffed in the pockets ofmy well-mendedjacket, my dog runs about sniffing and wagging his tail, as glad as me to be out in the cold fresh air. I look up at the sky, so much bigger here without the buildings to hem it in, but then it is the buildings my eyes are really drawn to. Buildings with bay windows, rows of tall narrow windows, and small ovals of glass peeking out of attic rooms. Victorians and Edwardians mostly surround this neglected park in my part of the city and I yearn for my own building with lots of windows, with unlimited views, for life to look out at and a building to feel secure in, but not trapped by.