There is construction across the street. When you live in a city—especially one this old—the only direction to build is up so that the sun can never see you. The construction workers start before the garbage men make their rounds and continue on weekends and sometimes even holidays, too.

I doubt most of the workers really want to be here. Some can be seen stumbling as they negotiate the heavy workload. With every drag on their cigarette, they try to forget how they got here, and the forces large than them playing a deadly game.

Two of them use wheelbarrows. One of the wheelbarrows squeaks. Tinnitus would be a blessing compared to this sound. It penetrates through thick concrete walls, all the way to the nearest tram.

The solution for that squeak is expensive for the workers. I could pitch in. My neighbours could pitch in. But we’ve all just become used to it.