Noise is a constant. Organic, fabricated, rhythmic, chaotic. Steps on the stairs outside the door - stomping, running, shuffling, stumbling. Voices, all the time, at all hours. Shouting. Laughing. Crying. Cursing. Screaming. Fists and chairs and headboards against walls. Water groaning and knocking through pipes. Wind and rain and street noise seeping through windows and past open doors. Floorboards and walls popping and creaking with age and movement. Vermin scavenging. Radios. Record players. Doors.
His dreams, when he has them, are mercifully silent.
Here Comes the Rain
Rain cleanses nothing here. What it does do is wipe away the layers of prevarication that people insist on constructing. It brings out the truth of personalities, dissolving false courtesies and empty promises - the longer a person stands in rain, the more honest he will become. It does the same for the city, eliminating the garish colors and deceptive grays that gloss over flaws, distract from