Awakened by the bass from that rather inane dance track that the girl downstairs has suddenly taken a liking to... or more probably it's her ungracious Glaswegian boyfriend who likes, and plays, it. Good thing he's rarely around.
I know enough of apartment life in a variety of contexts to know that I'm lucky here; my lovely, sweet-tempered, tall blond Valkyrie of a downstairs neighbor, and the attentive, helpful landlord. As for noisy students on either side, since these attached houses have brick walls between them, it's rare that I hear much. The last two transients downstairs, roommates for the Valkyrie, have been the only ones to play music, and they did so rarely, for which I am most thoroughly grateful.
However, the relatively quiet space I live in – a flat alone, lots of light and air, amplified by the extended summer days of these high latitudes – makes even those rare bursts of drum'n'bass feel remarkably interruptive, as though they damage some sort of connection that is normally, silently, maintained. Or perhaps they damage the agreement I have made with the quiet....
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