The people on the first floor complain about the noise overhead. Those are my feet on the floorboards of the second floor. I gripe about the music on the third throbbing through my plastered ceiling. The vertical lamentations continue, I am certain, all the way through the tar topped roof to the gates of heaven and through levels of divine bureaucracy right up to the throne. I protested my older siblings who accused my parents of injustice who bitched about bosses who fretted over the government that worried over other governments and squadrons of soaring missiles. There is not enough rain. There is too much snow. The sun is too hot and the moon is driving us to lunacy over the satellites swarming in the thermosphere when a call is dropped. God must be ignoring our prayers.