There is a man down the street — apparently, part of a group home or somesuch, if I remember what Cynthia told me — who has a wonderful case of Tourette’s. And every morning and (I discover now) every afternoon, you can hear him through my office window, screaming curse words and other meaningless sounds at the top of his lungs.

Adds a certain je ne sai quoi to the afternoon listening of the Stay soundtrack, I must admit.