Every night one neighbor bends lowly over his desk. Heavy looks the desk, made of massive, brown wood. Oak, I would guess. But I do not know what the neighbor sees in front of him. Be it sorrows,or happiness he might see or just a book with fine drawings in front of him. But deeply he looks and never he looks up. Every night one neighbor carries her baby through the apartment, back and forward. Slowly she walks, but sometimes she waltzes, elegantly and as if levitating through the air. Always she stops at the window that is turned toward the street. But if she looks for someone, who might wait under the lantern, or just wants to see if the pub is already closed or is just tired of long days alone with the child I do not know. Every night one neighbor undresses in front of the window as if on a stage. But what he sees, when he carefully and never hasty unbuttons his shirt, before he takes it off and starts to reach for the buckle of his belt, till his trousers slip down, again with no hurry, I can not tell you. Sometimes, but not every night he yawns. Seldom he caresses his shoulders, broad and strong as they are. Might it be he thinks himself beautiful, or not or at least fairly tolerable. But maybe everything is different and he has had his way for such a long time that he just does not care anymore. Not for the light, not for the window and not for me, who he must see every night standing at the window as well. Sometimes but not every night I hold a cup of tea in my hand, most often a book, hardly ever I carry hope with me around. But what I am looking for, be it for Queen Cat or the last light to be turned off, he does not know, and most often I do not even know it myself. But we all search night for night and maybe one day we know better or at least stay awake for another silent hour.