S.J. Perelman was walking home one night in New York, and when he got to Washington Square Park he ran into poet E.E. Cummings, whom he knew a little.
They walked along together and came to an apartment building on the edge of the square. Cummings suddenly stopped and stared up at the building and said, ‘What scenes of sordid domesticity do you think are being played out behind those lighted windows?”
Perelman protested, ‘Why, that’s my apartment.”
And Cummings said, “I know.’
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