I just realized that when I leaned back in my chair to stretch.
I also realized that the ceiling looks like it's made of questionable plywood, and I wonder how it can possibly handle holding up the second floor, much less tolerate the inexplicable slam-banging that our upstairs neighbors seem to make at all hours of the night.
I'm sure there's some kind of profound reflection on life that I could draw from the holes in the ceiling. But I don't have one.
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