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He
knew a song that was only half-remembered. Perhaps he had heard
it through that wall shared with the neighbor's apartment, drum’s
rhythm thumping through the plaster like a house beat through
cotton wool. That familiar melody took on such a dangerous and
sinister sheen when accents caught on the wrong beat. Major
seven and minor third or whatever chord notes mixed with radio
static echoed through his head, knocked between his ears and
grew in volume until fatigue won out. This silent song haunted
his sleep; the same five seconds ran on a constant loop. By
morning that song was rewritten as symphonies in his head. Out
in the soft morning light the birds twittered in time to the
noise of the traffic rush in time with the half-remembered song.
And in the last second before frustration upset composure, the
song simply disappeared. Birds sang and traffic passed with
no regular rhythm; his head began filling with mundane morning
tasks. A sweet, silent conspiracy, he decided, in that half-remembered
way.
| Matthew
Patrick, November 2001 |
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