For whatever reason, I get earworms most mornings while my coffee is brewing. I can't find any logic to the selection, but I suspect it's similar to dreaming. Something brings a particular song to mind.


Asiketali & The Marsaillaise

This might be because my sister loved the Spinners and she has a big birthday coming up. The day before it was The Marsaillaise. Very strange.




Something ticks, once. The big fan in the ceiling beats around with a low frequency flicker. The sound of running water always seems to come from somewhere, although that's probably not it at all. It's the pipes speaking to each other in their alien language. One speaks. The others think and another one answers. Knuckles. The air conditioner makes a constant whine, pulsing more or less irregularly to cover a low buzz. Something ticks. Cars rumble past always and occasionally something larger passes, a truck. Even more rarely still an engine brake bellows, or a horn hoots, or a siren sings its human alarm call, like a big, flapping bird rising into the night sky. All the rare road noises are happening together, but some are inaudibly distant, some are under my window. Something ticks again, and once more. A chair scrapes against a floor. Someone laughs, a woman, young, high. She might be happy, or she might be filled with contempt. A motorcycle. A tick. The refrigerator ticks, but it's a different tick. Tires munch into gravel. The motorboat rumble of the air conditioning is moving in some kind of odd rythmn with the fan. The light under the fan is precessing. The air from the fan, in its weak column, is moving around the bed. As it waves past the air from the air conditioner, they make a curious whoosh, like the sigh of two lovers who have too much left to do to kiss. A television screams, is cut off, speaks, is cut off, sings, is cut off, sighs and groans like a mantra and stays. Something ticks. Not to be outdone the refrigerator starts its chill cycle, like air blowing, tender caresses for the lettuces and cold meats that are not there. The cold meat is in the chair at the desk, tapping. The air conditioner stops and into the silence there drops the distinct sound, like heavy stone dropped into water, of the cork being pulled from a bottle. Liquid running. Clear. Distant perhaps. Attenuated. Not much of it. A pause. A little more liquid. Another much longer slug. A tick. A glass taps down onto formica. Somewhere a bedside alarm starts to moan moan moan. A sigh. The rustle of a shirt sleeve as an arm is lifted. The sound of disbelief as encoded by pursed lips and escaping air. Another sigh. Tick. Then the sound of long collected water drops falling from a tap.













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