... "Ugh, tell me about it," says Chloe, a PR assistant to a "green" hedge fund. "It's getting harder to find a guy who doesn't repose by night within cool, curved bronze."
Although no hard figures are available, experts concur with Chloe's analysis. "In the past six months, I've seen more wretched clients who yearn only to drown the clamor of their guilt in blissful cacophony than I had in my entire career up to that point," notes realtor Jill Lee.
But what do the bell-dwellers themselves have to say about their new lifestyle? We went to an unmarked grave, silent and still on a deserted, moonlit moor, to find out.
"Mad! Mad, they call me!" raved Nicholas Amontillado, whose blog Look Into This F*cking Tintinnabulatory Abyss is a must-read for fellow "clappers." "But who, I ask you, is truly mad? The man who lives his life deaf to the whispering of the passions, and finally dies, empty and gray? Or the man for whom sensation is so powerful that he hears even the petals tumbling from a withered, long-forgotten flower, in a walled-up room where his cousin and playmate Beatricia frolics now for ever with her toys and bon-bons? Besides, practically all of the interns I know are doing it -- may God have mercy on their tortured souls!"
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