Noises come from the other side of the wall. It could be my neighbor’s fist against the concrete. I’m terrorized. A primitive form of communication, a request for me to erase my interference in his acoustic space—just when I thought I had finally appropriated a few cubic meters of air.
His drumming will sew my mouth shut. It will turn stringed instruments into mere fancy boxes. Sooner or later it will bid me to stop breathing, lest my existence is far too noisy for his comfort.
A chair squeaks. My neck crunches. Space, enter, double-click.
Is it him? Or is it my heart?