It’s weird, the things you notice. Like the fact that the sky desperately wants to rain, or that the fledgling raindrops on the asphalt driveway look like glitter thrown from the heavens by some flamboyant deity beneath the buzzing streetlight.

But you don’t actually notice that the streetlight is buzzing. The noise doesn’t make it past your headphones. You probably wouldn’t take note anyway, because you’ve been under buzzing lights all your life. There’s no real reason for you to start caring seventeen years later.

There’s also no real reason for you to be outside. It’s three below and you weren’t built for the cold, damp night into which you’ve thrust yourself. It’s too warm in your house for the sounds coming through your headphones, turning your ribs to ice and your head to static. That’s just what this musician does to you. It’s deliciously cold, and the warmth of the house is too dissonant.

Not that there’s anything wrong with a little dissonance.