＃６３

He heard — but heard so little of reality, at least as he formerly understood it. Bouncing his fingertips across a handrail yields the pitter-patter of autumn rain. The fraternal croon of traffic outside his window gives way to seagulls conversing at low tide. Were these sounds his mere hallucination? Melancholy flashbacks of a dying world, or psychic previews of the future? Real noises, even, shuttled by some jetstream directly to his ears? A pint glass drops and shatters as he misses his bus; a tigergrass broom halfheartedly collects the shards. B881 - CASTLEDINE via ANYSON pulls in; young boys holler inside a toppled grain silo. Echolocation of their potential, he thinks. His volition, gone, of course: derealization rarely spares the will. (Or rather, one is lured away.) At 5pm, Grayson features in his one-millionth ambient soundtrack; the man in unit 11 hears the chatter of Grayson’s key and lock, the vocal fry of door hinges that have long given up hope of lubrication. We are all of us disinterested artists - engaged in the constant production of our sonic footprint on the world yet with no appetite to listen in. What for? At least a shadow can be played with, reinterpreted; a reflection is a costume prop. But the rustle of a cotton shirt as we scratch an itch, the expansion of our ribs with breath, these are at best meditative aids to be discarded A.S.A.P. Mangrove roots make music. The tide rushes out in triplets. Grayson hears, listens—even sings a little, misremembered verses from his past. But he doesn’t make a sound.