2005-02-28 - 7:31 p.m. fake: he walks, slowly, with his hands in his pocket. he has stopped hearing most things. he can feel the vibrations, if it's all close enough, in his bones, in his joints. a small boy rides by on his bike. his right arm hairs moved in the breeze the kid created. did he miss sound? it was hard to say. feeling the train in his knees and elbows was almost the same as hearing it. he realizes, now, that no one ever really talks to him. he screens his calls. he works late night, by himself, stocking warehouses. e-mail, internet, there is no speaking. he misses music. he misses notes and rhythms. once in a while a song will run through his head and it is as if the radio was turned on. it is crystal clear, perfect, spot on. then it fades out. and all he really hears is the blood rushing in his ears. his heartbeat. previous - next