The woman across the hall counts dust grains.
There's a couple next door to her. They hate the way she counts dust grains, because they feel the diction isn't good enough. They judge everything by the precision of pronunciation.
Their cat thinks it understands quantum physics, but it's just a hobbyist.
My downstairs neighbor keeps mannikins in her apartment. All of the furniture is made of mannikins.
Sometimes her ex-husband comes by. He's a nurse. He tells her that she's going to be famous someday, just to annoy her. Then they go eat Vietnamese food together. Sometimes, they bring me some back.
The landlord is also downstairs. He likes model trains and has an impressive set. He always asks us tenants if we would like tracks and stops in our rooms, because it would be more convenient. When we say no, he tells us that we'll regret our choice when the revolution comes.
There's a nest of bees outside my window. They like jazz and partying all night. They're friendly enough, but bad when I have work early in the morning.
There's only one apartment on the top floor of the apartment complex. It's occupied by BATF agents who are watching the apartment across the street. They like peanut butter, yellow post-it notes with haiku, and the Esperanto language. "Ni amas haikojn," they always say. I don't think that's proper Esperanto.
Someday, there will be a dog in the apartment complex. Its name will be Almond, and something about it will remind us all of regality. It will be the unofficial monarch of the apartment complex. We'll all feed it the best of our food.
Until that day comes, though, every tenant must stand alone.