So I sat up, turned off the TV, and listened. It was coming from some sort of neighbor. Now I know I have probably annoyed my neighbors with prog-rock eighties music during daylight hours, but this was preposterous. What's worse, it was a live version. The audience sang the latter ten and a half minutes of the song back to Dave Gahan in Depeche Mode concertgoer ecstasy. When it was finally over, it started again!
I turned off all my lights and peered out of my window to see the only house on the other side of the street lit up like a Christmas tree, accompanied by the new guy living there in his open garage, working on his car. The car was shaking with the sound of the thunderous applause of a Depeche Mode crowd. I then tripped over something on my bed, noticed the Ewan McGregor/Obi Wan head stuck above my mirror still glowed in the dark after all these years, and crawled back under the sheets in a Sominex induced stupor.
Aside from myself and my next-door neighbor who graduated high school with me and who, I assume, will also live at home until he kills himself, there is no one under the age of 93 on my street. I'm sure they are all making their way to their walkers and down their driveways to perform a lynching on the new guy as I type this.