Walking around my apartment in mid-afternoon I am reminded suddenly of my grandparents' place in Boca Raton, Florida. Perhaps it's the selective emptiness of the refridgerator - coke, cold cuts, cheese, water, bread, cake - or perhaps it's the obvious fact that the apartment came furnished and there's no hint of individuality. Or maybe it's the warm breeze.

Yesterday, I couldn't figure out why the electronics salesmen insisted on opening radios and playing them for me before I purchased one. Today I found out. I opened up a newly purchased electric razor to find it covered in hair and broken. Now I know why those radio salesmen looked surprised each time the radio worked.