You leave that apartment in the middle of the night because you can't bare the silence any longer.
You leave because you've tried and can not seem to fall asleep into the next day, or the day after. In this moment, your mind is fixed; this must suffice. The draft, the static, the quiet was right.
You excuse the hour for you know there is nothing concrete to look forward to.
With no place to end, you hit the cold pavement with a purpose. This you do carrying your head down, minding each step. If you tried any harder, your legs would break at the bone.
You lead yourself to an unfamiliar territory in which your thoughts dare not carry you. To a wide open space trains once frequented. Back when civilians were more inclined.
But you are here, and this is now.
You stop at the end of the world, or what you assume must be the end. From here, the fog-horns couldn't sound more clear. You stand here waiting to be delivered. This shall fail, but you'll look for what matters; not one thing will matter.
You've come here for the noise.