The Rhythm of Wet Boots

Dear Delyara, The cleaners waxed the main floor tonight, and now every single step I take in my thick rubber soles makes a sharp, echoing screech that bounces off the ceiling. It completely ruins any sense of quiet dignity. You try to carry yourself smoothly, but the building’s architecture immediately turns your walk into a repetitive joke. I spent half my evening walking on the very edge of the stone tiles where the polish didn't reach, just to find a little bit of silence.