After three hours of drunken coma – not to be mistaken as tangible sleep – this song by NYC's abusive noise trio, Sightings, is what waking up is and sounds like. It seems that there might be the pieces of an 8/4 rock song in there, but one can never tell when it is buried under screaming and beyond-decibel fuzz, fuzz even so distorted that there seems to be no original source or any comparable sound. It is only loud. And the loud is coming from everywhere. Is it the alarm-clock-how-long-has-it-been-going-off-why-is-there-pounding-on-the-front-door-and-the-phone-why-is-anyone-calling-me-this-early-holy-shit-how-did-get­-to-be-this-late-fuck-how-do-I-turn-off-this-goddamn-alarm? This is not a hangover. This is drunk without the inflated sense of security, this is Eugene O'Neal-style dementia coupled with a splitting headache. The mind attempts the massive task of reorganization of the entire constructs of reality. The alarm is going off because we set it two hours ago. It has been going off for quite awhile. Someone is pounding on the door because we left a trail of our mail starting with the phone bill on the first floor leading all the way to the crumpled Jewel SuperSaver waded up in front of our door, where our keys are still jammed. The lady downstairs just wanted to see if we're all right, and though we assure her we're fine, doubt is still registered on her face when we close the door. The song keeps going; it doesn't get louder or faster, but only because thankfully we live in a dimension that won't physically allow it to. The phone stops ringing as we stand under the showerhead, not getting clean but only wet, and we realize that the car pool has left without us. Grabbing keys from the front door and swishing the mouthwash in lieu of proper hygiene we hope that we had a good time last night. Climbing the steps to the train the song finally just stops, now our soft head contends with the sounds of a Friday morning and the distant rumbling of a late train.