Once a week he pulls up to the row of garages outside my window. The stereo is forever pounding out a steady rhythm inside his always heavily loaded, oversize pickup truck.
The music plays continuously, as he shuts off the engine and opens the door to his private garage. The space is packed floor to ceiling with the kind of things that are left at a flea market late on a Sunday afternoon. The noisy rhythm continues, as he unloads the well used items from the back of the truck and places them with jigsaw puzzle precision into the nooks and crannies of the great mass. Sometimes he has to remove things and rearrange in order to fit more, but every week he somehow manages it. Nothing is ever discarded.
Eventually the weekly ritual is complete, and he pulls away in his truck with the stereo ceaselessly beating.