The pipes are clank, clank, clanking. My husband John is still in deep sleep, where I would like to return to. But those pipes. I’m sure one of them will burst. Maybe not today, maybe not even next week, but definitely soon. I ought to buy some earplugs.
It’s 5 a.m., and I beckon slumber. Come back, come back, I plead within my own head. The incessant banging of the pipes grows louder. Poe’s relentless Tell-Tale Heart comes to mind, beat, beat, beating, slowly driving him mad. A vision of a house appears, not this one but a different one, sitting high atop a hill, enveloped in a billow of menacing, ashen clouds, its imperious walls rattling with the echo of old clanking pipes.
The alarm goes off. Somehow 45…