into an insouciance, set down
by frayed nerves unwinding,
on an old teak double bed
that rests amputated
from a crystalline night sky,
by a hideous golden roof,
two floors and a dozen beams,
my consciousness strains
to breach the flowing silence,
running feet on a marble floor,
the infrasonic hum of an ancient wall lamp,
the fading growl of a tired generator
twump of an empty wooden vessel,
the imagined whir of an antivirus scan;
every little beautiful sound
that went unregistered
in the effortless deafness
of a brisk routine.
For the next few days, everything I hear will be music.
Adagio. Contrapuntal. Fugue. Allegro. Movement. So many words I have come to know. So many words I will never really know.