From a self-diagnosed crazy family– cropped up on the 31st floor of an apartment building filled with aging artists- nights passed hearing the piano player next door teaching someone how to sing an unrecognizable song- the elevator rides filled with women who sing opera even when they speak- comes the life of a chapstick- or no, a Capstick- often mistakened as chapstick followed by the knowing chuckle of someone pushing buttons- Welcome to my public writing exercise— a way to keep track of the crazy.

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