Afraid, each sound a random piece of warning that floats in corners, cul-de-sac, bouncing off, here and there, we cannot understand. Loud enough to be heard. Mumble-Indecipherable. This wall has a rough surface, that wall has a pastiche of glued up posters girls and boys, looking like shit, looking like barbie dolls cut up for alternate universes that our world already is/are - the sounds here and there. We listen. Nothing else matters. It is wet; or dry, every space has a hole that the sound can fill - then it disappears and, prematurely, we reach the end of this noise. And when that noise ends, it coincides with a flashing light - Don't be stupid, it's not an epiphany. And the nascent state of a silent moment is filled up immediately with shrieks and shrills of people thrown into the corner, uninvited, passively a-------------waiting, throwing up since they're here and there, just ten centimetres from the floor to the wide-open mOuth. It passes from one end of the void to the covered gutter. The only substance worthy of space is waste. Don't look far when you stare at a mirror. Cavities on your teeth are evidence of my earlier statement. Your attempts to be calm are fine - we're already mad to think that we know. We know, however, that next weekend we'll find you lying on the ground. Do you feel closer to God? Bless you! The reason why you're still alive is only because you're too drunk to kill yourself. And yet, I'm not entirely clear why I'm mad, since I'm equally calm to retrieve this piece of memory from the white noise that is in my mind. It's not hard to associate my anger with noise. IT'S HARDER TO DECIPHER THE NOISE. gloating at my bad luck, that I'm deaf to my own production of AaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaH
and we can take our time, just long enough, before the noise disappears, to decode the message - that there is nothing to understand except that infants cry just as hard. Maybe that's all there is to our noises. An old folk holding the hand of a toddler - and skip everything in between. Yes, it's easy to feel tired, very tired, very tired of being tired, very tired of having to say one is tired. But unless we have truly lived enough to look back at this corner of an alley, and listen to the noises we have made so far; yes then, it will be remembered that all the intervals when apparitions and ghouls had appeared because they are inclined to clink on to us for a last puff of the wretched smoke, and to tempt us to a premature death, so that we might befriend them and live out our poor lives as spectres. Indeed, this evening, we hold true to the merest quiet sounds, that it may forge a void. Suspending the belief that it will be fine. Instead, we are afraid, so that each vertigo passes off eventually as a chuckle, and wholly quiet thereafter. Fade to mute. And cease to exist.
and we can take our time, just long enough, before the noise disappears, to decode the message - that there is nothing to understand except that infants cry just as hard. Maybe that's all there is to our noises. An old folk holding the hand of a toddler - and skip everything in between. Yes, it's easy to feel tired, very tired, very tired of being tired, very tired of having to say one is tired. But unless we have truly lived enough to look back at this corner of an alley, and listen to the noises we have made so far; yes then, it will be remembered that all the intervals when apparitions and ghouls had appeared because they are inclined to clink on to us for a last puff of the wretched smoke, and to tempt us to a premature death, so that we might befriend them and live out our poor lives as spectres. Indeed, this evening, we hold true to the merest quiet sounds, that it may forge a void. Suspending the belief that it will be fine. Instead, we are afraid, so that each vertigo passes off eventually as a chuckle, and wholly quiet thereafter. Fade to mute. And cease to exist.
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