I like to leave music playing in my room when I walk down to the other end of the corridor to make photocopies or pick up some fucking documents from my pigeon hole. I leave the door closed so as not to annoy my fellow-workers by allowing the music (usually electronic, Thomas Brinkmann currently) to escape disturbingly into the corridor, like a cloud of intoxicating or noxious gas.
I enjoy walking back down the corridor and hearing the rumble of music in the room as I approach the door. With Brinkmann, it sounds like a strange techno machine is going nuts behind the door, clicking, buzzing, booming, crackling and clanking. Pushing its membranes out in a compulsive trapped dance. Threatening to disintegrate yet always holding together.
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