Solitude unchosen, the drone of it rising to a buzz. That poet you hate, his dead tune on a bad instrument. Hungover, the terrible fork glancing the excruciating plate and-that same morning-the frisson of corduroy, your own, as you walk. Loud music, not yours; somebody else’s good time. The oratory of an enemy. The cacophony of someone asking for love. Another remark after the argument’s been conceded, or the story’s over. Your stupid, habitual politeness when the telemarketer calls. The restrained ha-ha when only a belly laugh will honor the moment. Any complaint, even the gentlest, from a person incapable of praise. Someone you know you’ll not see again-the dull click of an unslammed door.
NOISE
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