1. My throat is dry. Very dry. It has something to do with the air in here. It wasn't always like this, but the heaters in this apartment suck the moisture out of everything. It's begun to make breathing slightly difficult, and it sucks all of the water out of the fish tank as well. I've needed to pour in three jugs of tap water this week alone. Of course, I'd turn the heat down if I could, but I don't have a thermostat. It's in the next apartment, where the musicians live. They like to keep the heat turned up fairly high, because their apartment has a large bay window that looks out into the street. Mine doesn't, you see, so the heat builds up. I don't have any windows at all.

2. Having my fish tank is consolation for not having windows. It functions in a similar way; it provides a view. That's the important thing. It provides evidence of life outside of your own. I've come to realize that those things which seem to reside on the outside are also an essential element of what is inside.

3. I first emerged from the fish tank on 14 December, 1968. Until that date I swam. In those days the musicians didn't have the heat turned up quite as high, but of course the tank wasn't cared for nearly as well. It wasn't as nice a place to be in as it is now. Since I emerged, I've installed a light to illuminate the tank, and I've moved it to the desk beside my bed so that I can watch the fish at night.

At first, years ago, I underestimated the importance of caring for the fish. For a while I had a picture of a shark up against the tank. It was inexcusable. I suppose that I had forgotten what it was like to be on the inside, but I like to think that I'm more thoughtful now, more responsible. Maybe you would never suspect that that kind of abuse could come from someone who had once been on the other side, so to speak, but I'll tell you, situations change, and what seemed obvious at one time begins to turn cloudy as you change. I try to do my best now that I'm their guardian.

4. I've written a note to the musicians:

Dear Musicians:

I realise that you are cold, but please try to understand my situation. The heat in here is really unbearable, and I am finding it increasingly difficult to breath. I know we have discussed this before, but try to find it in your heart to lower the thermostat setting. Perhaps you could get in the habit of reducing the temperature at night, even if you kept it high during the day. If not for my sake, then perhaps for the welfare of the fish.

Yours truly,

The occupant next door.

5. Today I found one of my fish floating on the top of the tank. It was a Blue Angel, a particularly humble kind of fish that preferred the darker flakes from the fish food shaker. I've decided to leave him floating for a period of seven hours. That means there are three more hours to go. The seven hours of floating time is a nice bridge between life and death. The dead fish isn't simply plucked form the tank; it is left for a period of time that will allow the other fish to become accustomed to the change.

6. I've ordered a replacement fish for the dead Blue Angel. I couldn't get another Angel, but the salesperson assured me that a Rainbow Guava, imported from Tahiti, will suit my purposes. I'm having it delivered.

7. The pollution must be extremely bad today. It's very hard to breath, like I have a chicken bone caught in my throat. I tried listening through the wall, to see if the musicians might mention the very high level of pollution, but all I could here was Wagner. They never speak anyway, just play music. Perhaps they speak in very low tones because they don't want me to hear them. Maybe they are feeling guilty about my note. I stuck it through a narrow crack between the bathroom wall and the ceiling. That was four days ago, and it's not there anymore.

8. Last night, at 3:42 AM, I woke up because I couldn't breath. I heaved myself over to the side of the bed and took a huge gulp of water from the fish tank. I'm not sure if I drank it or if I inhaled it, but it helped immediately. I hope the fish didn't get too frightened.

9. I've begun to regularly plunge my head into the fish tank to supplement my breathing. I've also tried water from the tap, but it doesn't seem to work as well. I accidentally swallowed the Rainbow Guava yesterday. I'm not sure what to do.

10. Only three fish are left. I've tried to be careful, but I've eaten the rest. This morning I sat on my bed and began to cry. Two of my salty tears contained hope for the future. The first one rolled down my cheek and onto the floor before I knew what was happening. A small creature flopped around on the ground briefly in agony, and then died. It was pink and minute, and perfectly formed.

I caught the second tear in my hand just as it welled from my eye. This one was slightly greyish, and moved rather slowly, but I put it into the tank immediately. Since then its condition has improved, and I'm sure it will be okay. All it needs are food flakes and love.

Phil McCluskey