I wrote a play last night about my month-long stay in Lia and Piper's New York apartment.
A quickie before I go:
I used to keep my box fan in the window frame with the window open behind it. One night, I was reading in bed, and the fan lifted up in the window frame and flew across the room, crashing into the opposite wall (at my feet). I didn't go through all of the questions one might have about what had happened, why what had happened happened or how. Instead, I got up and went over to the fan. It was now unplugged, its plug had been pulled from the wall in flight. I picked up the fan and carried it back to the window frame. As I did so, the blades began to spin, slowly at first but with increasing speed. Once I had set the fan in the window, the blades were at a regular roar. I lowered the fan to the floor and got in bed. I left the fan off, sitting on the floor beside me. I was alone. I made a few phone calls but no one answered. It was late. So I made a deal with the ghost. I keep the fan on the floor now. I sleep with my back to it.