The top floor apartment air is sick with summer. Ninety-six degrees of fever heat push through the open windows and churn through half a dozen fans, all pointed at the kitchen counter where you stand in a pair of gym shorts, nitrile gloves, headphones, and nothing else. It’s Friday night and thunderous bass drops have been stolen by nightclubs and house parties, so you turn up the volume on a tune with no tempo. Drone sounds and handmade noises, water falling in rain gutters and fabric rustling and far off trains hurtling over tracks blaring their horns, feedback from a bass string plucked without purpose, a cello being tuned. All slowed down some percentage that renders them abstract. Not very showy, but you’re alone and it’s past your bogus bedtime.