Something Simon composed years ago is playing on someone else’s personal headphones; it’s a man sat opposite him in the waiting room. He believes the man is destroying his piece by reading a car magazine at the same time, like both forms of attention are possible. They shouldn’t be. He feels irritated by the man with the earphones, enjoying music he slaved to produce, music that is now nothing but a faded afterthought, quietly leaking into a stranger’s ears. It’s like someone else is sucking up his blood for fun.