To paraphrase Tom Waits, what are you building in there, upstairs neighbors? I hear you pounding nails into things sometimes as you play your Latin music. (Last week it was a mashup of "Macarena" and "Joy to the World"; where on earth did you find such a thing?) I hear you dropping very heavy things on the floor in the middle of the night, to the accompaniment of loud Spanish dialogue. Since I can hear you so clearly, I kind of wish I understood what you were saying. I also kind of wish you would die.
Why do you rearrange your furniture so often? Most people do not rearrange their furniture four times a week, but it seems likely that you don't know that, which in turn is probably because you can't comprehend the parameters of normal society's rationale in any meaningful way. If you could, you probably wouldn't have that siren. You wouldn't play that drum machine incessantly. You wouldn't ululate. But you do.
Who the hell are you people?