Where I live now, in North Carolina, I can't hear the freeway's drone the way I can outside my parents' home in our city on the west coast.
Mornings, I walk along curved streets and hear a jet engine's dull echo sliding over the county.
Heating systems buzz and clink, as if they're toasting their owners.
A dog yelps from three yards over. The poor bastard's been left out in the cold, and he doesn't care about contemplation, Calvinism, or the blood pulsing through my ears.