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February 18, 2020
Every night. Every damned night. I wake; feverish and dream-tossed, neuropathy tickling and tingling, and the noises are there to prevent me sinking swiftly back into sleep. He is at it again, upstairs. Knocks, bangs, and what sounds like furniture being scraped across the floor. Occasional sighs and grunts. On and on it goes. Not loud enough to complain about but loud enough to trouble a fellow insomniac. I hear Tom Waits asking “What’s he building in there? “, but with my upstairs neighbour it’s more like “What’s building in there?”, and I know the answer is dementia, and death.