"There was not a sound in the theatre of the noonday, the stillness
was absolute, the solitude complete, only up here, even up here, on top
of the hill, penetrated the sound of the jukeboxes, indeed sounding
loud, it was a harsh and ugly challenge to this solitude, and coming
from the emptiness, almost ludicrous, and so loud, as they listened, it
seemed to have kept the birds awake in the fresnos of the zócalo, from
where their voices, borne on a sudden cat's-paw, sounded like doors
swinging on rusty hinges."
Malcolm Lowry, Dark as the Grave wherein my Friend is Laid.
