First a little pitter-pat. Then a bit of rat-a-tat-tat. Then a blurry shusshing sound as the rain falls on the roof.
Through the wall a serenade creeps. A sensual blending of voice and instrumentation, muffled by what’s in between.
A siren sounds then fades and traffic hums back and forth, the voice of the wind rustling in the leaves of a nearby tree during the moments in between.
A horn blasts out thrice and gives me a start. Visitors. I roll my eyes, but they do not come in.
Remember the time that you called up that famous artist slash photographer, and then hung up when you heard their voice answering the phone? It was intense.