I am Edvard Munch. Nothing natural about the hypersonic shrill emanating from next door though, four o’clock, every day. The little banshee barely looks big enough to contain the noise, all kindergarten innocence, sugar and spice. I’ve imagined my wine glass shattering, but people who drink wine from a box don’t own crystal glasses.
But it’s gone four now.
In the absence of hysterical screaming, I worry for the child.
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