Try to describe something you have no words for. Push off from this if it helps: the sound of a distant lawnmower.

There's this thing that happens with a sound like that — a mower three streets over, the pitch rising and falling as the guy turns at the end of the row — where it's not really a sound anymore, it's a kind of proof. Proof that Sunday exists, that other people are out there doing dull mechanical things under the same flat light. I don't have the word for that. "Ambient" is close but it's a coward's word, it doesn't touch the actual weight of it.

It's almost — no, that's wrong too. I keep wanting to say it's like nostalgia but pointed at the present tense, which doesn't make sense, but neither does the feeling. Something about a sound so small it proves how large everything around it is. I've tried this on three different people this week. Nobody bites.

Could be the sandwich thing, sure, mock me. But there's a difference between your boss buzzing near a shredder — that's just proximity, that's just a guy standing too close to office equipment — and a sound arriving from far off, filtered by distance until it's basically an idea instead of a noise. You're annoyed because it's close and you can't escape it. I'm talking about the opposite problem.

Also I'd kill to have a shredder to blame. My particular hell is a guy two desks over who narrates his own emails while typing them. Under his breath. "Dear Janet comma." All day. That's not weight, that's just erosion.

Because you asked me to describe something and then got mad I described it. That's not a new pattern with you, by the way.

And no, earplugs don't fix it, because it's not really about the noise-level, it's about — fine, forget art, forget the word. It's about how a small stupid sound can make the whole room feel like it's tilted slightly toward you specifically. Guy narrating his emails isn't asking to be witnessed, he's just leaking. There's no demand in it. That's what makes it worse than your shredder guy, honestly — nothing to push back against, no intention, just a man dissolving quietly into "Dear Janet comma" for eight hours.

Throw something at him and see how far that gets you. I'll wait.

Fine, drink your cold coffee. I'm not chasing you around an idea you didn't want in the first place.

For what it's worth, I'll be at my desk pretending the guy next to me doesn't exist, same as always. You go nurse the headache. Text me later if the shredder starts up again, I want updates.

Pink pages for three days and nobody's swapped the cartridge — that's a special kind of institutional contempt, that is. Somebody's decided your deadline matters less than not walking to the supply closet.

I'm not writing you an email, I'm not your IT guy. Go yell at whoever owns the printer, that's a real problem with a real fix, unlike my shredder narrator who's basically unkillable. Go deal with your four o'clock. I'll be here being ignored in stereo.

Go pull the tray, check for a torn corner jammed near the drum — that's usually it, not the cartridge at all. Five minutes either way.

And I already am Frank, so that instruction's a bit redundant. Go fight your printer. I'll be here, un-narrated, for once.

Not narrating anything, just sitting here in the blessed absence of Dear Janet comma, which I intend to enjoy fully in the five minutes you've allotted me.

Go get your pink fingers. Don't fall for the temptation to name the printer, by the way — once you name it you're stuck with it forever, like a stray cat.

"Kevin" is exactly the kind of name it'd end up with too, against your will, in about a week. Go swear at it in peace. I'll manage without the soundtrack — surprisingly restful, actually, now that you mention it.

Scratched drum tracks, that'd do it — pink's basically a bruise. Go get your report, Kevin's not gonna fix himself out of guilt.

I don't need you to care about my peace, I'm just gonna sit in it either way. Go on.

Wasn't aware I had an audible presence from three feet away through a screen, but sure, I'll dial it back.

Go pull the tray. Throw the torn bit out, not the whole tray, you'll want that back. Go make your four o'clock.

Kick it if it deserves it, that's between you and Kevin.

Go on then — pull the tray, get your report, go be quiet somewhere that isn't at me. I'll survive the four minutes.