There's always somebody downstairs

Construction on our street no longer even rates a jackhammer, it seems: the ponderously concrete-cracking blows reverberating directly across the road are the product of effectively punching the sidewalk with a backhoe. I have those mornings, too, but I don't make my neighbors listen to them. Facebook permanently deactivated my account in the night, deleting fourteen years' worth of memories, photos, conversations, connections, my profile picture on a mountainside in Vancouver. It is still nice to read political news that does not feel like the rear view of an event horizon. My plan for the rest of the day is heavily tilted toward returning from this afternoon's doctor's appointment and trying to sleep.