To my left, muffled by the wall, the clock tower chimes the 45-minute sound. A passing truck sounds like wind at first, as if the wind were about to blow down the building. Inside, a lush array of thrums fill the reverberant space: a deep rumble, something between “ooh” and “aah,” and a gritty hissing whose stereo image widens significantly as I turn my head to the left. My typing clicks in inconsistent bursts; my computer’s feet click as I reposition it; my mask crinkles as I breathe. Every fifteen seconds or so, someone enters the main WSH door, making distant footstep sounds and a harsh but distant impact as the door closes. The road sounds return as cars pass by, seeming to be at my right and then wrapping behind me. Less often than the door sounds, the building creaks of its own accord. These sounds come from random places in the room. An elevator-like beep also enters the room from the far door. Another person walks in, and the clock tower chimes eleven o’clock. My phone, too, vibrates and rings a xylophone sound: I have a class in 20 minutes.