All week. Inundated with noise: jackhammer, digger, dump truck. Slicing up asphalt and obliterating concrete. 36 windows allow a lot of sound. Staring at the ceiling, wondering what caused the bubble in the plaster, a sphere suspended, one hundred years, an object of focus. Something, a giant vacuum? A tearing, a ripping through to this side of time. The sharp alarm of large trucks backing up. What I would have done for silence. For church bells, for birdsong.