One Hundred and Twenty Two

The old man in the apartment next to mine speaks to me through his coughing. He looks unkempt, like the kind of man who doesn't take care of himself very well. Every night I hear his coughs through the wall, and other than this, we have no interaction. I hear him coughing, and I imagine that he is coughing directly to me, whispering "this is what life will do to you, boy."