For the love of God, some guy is clanging on a giant piece of metal below my window, and it sounds like the East Indian Parade but without the rhythm and the feathered headdresses. The infernal banging is now firmly lodged inside my head, and no amount of “Rainforest Birds” or “Ocean Waves” or “Jingling Coins” can effectively drown it out, and has since evolved into a permanent sonic headache. Now I understand how people suddenly lose their minds and uncharacteristically assault their neighbor with a steel-toed boot, as a result of enduring long-term exposure to repetitive, disruptive noise long enough. At this point, the skin over my eyes has tightened so that the lids no longer close, and I can feel my eyeballs looking for a swift exit. Consequently, I am confident that I must now resemble that infamous photograph in the New York Post of a barely restrained Peter Braunstein, wild-eyed, and ready to leap witless over the defense table into a barrage of gunfire.
Anything to quiet that pounding in one’s head.
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