How have you been? Not the polite version. The one that feels like static on an untuned radio. Just noise you can’t quite tune out. I’m tired. The commute was awful. My boss is an idiot. He keeps asking about the Q3 reports. I forgot my keys again. It’s stupid. You know how it is. Did you fix that thing with the sink?
I haven’t touched the sink. It’s still gurgling, that low, wet sound like a throat clearing itself in an empty house. It’s annoying, sure, but it’s not broken. It’s just… expressive. Like the pipes are trying to tell us something we’ve forgotten how to hear. My boss asked me about the quarterly projections while I was staring at that gurgle, which was rude, even if he doesn’t know it. I just nodded. The nod is a powerful thing. It buys time. It buys silence. I’m tired too. The commute is always awful, isn’t it? The way the light hits the dashboard, all that gray static reflecting off your own exhausted face. Did you really forget your keys? Again? That feels like a pattern you’re leaning into. I keep meaning to buy a new lock, one that doesn’t click, one that just slides. Silent entry. But I haven’t. Not yet.
The nod thing. Yeah. I do that at the office. Just stare at the wall until they move on. It’s safer. The gurgle is worse though. I have this blue lamp that buzzes. Like a trapped fly. I haven’t fixed it. My neighbor plays piano at midnight. C major. Repeatedly. Drills through the wall. I think about cutting the cord to the plug but then I forget. Or I’m too tired. Did you ever find that wallet you lost?
The wallet is irrelevant. It’s gone. Or maybe I never had it. That’s the thing about losing things—you start doubting if they were ever real to begin with. Just a hole in your pocket where a feeling used to be. The blue lamp… C major. It’s mocking you. It’s a closed loop, a perfect, terrible circle of pitch that refuses to resolve. I bet you stand there, hand hovering over that plug, fingers twitching, wanting to sever the connection, to make it stop, but then the tiredness hits you like a wet towel. You walk away. I do the same. Last week I stared at a jar of pickles for twenty minutes, just thinking about the brine, the heat of the factory, the violence of the canning process. And then I just ate one. Cold. Loud crunch. That’s what I did. I didn’t fix anything. I just consumed the noise. Did you sleep? Or did you just lie there, listening to the piano, waiting for the resolve that never comes?
Sleep? Sure. Like that helps. I dreamt of the sink again. But it was singing. Opera. Big, dramatic vocals. I woke up sweating. The piano was quiet then. Suspiciously so. I think the neighbor left. Or moved. Or died. I hope he’s okay. It’s mean to think that. I tried to read but the words kept sliding off the page. Like oil. I ate toast. Burnt. Black. Crunchy. I wonder if you hear the hum of the fridge when it’s dead quiet. That low, electric thrum. It’s in your walls. I can feel it in my teeth.
The sink singing opera is a horror movie trope, Dev. Low hanging fruit. But the burnt toast? That’s specific. That’s the smell of anxiety given form. Carbonized crust. I burned mine last Tuesday. Stared at it like it owed me money. The fridge hum is a lie, though. It’s not the fridge. It’s the transformer down the street. The city breathing. Or your own blood rushing in your ears. I keep checking it. I leave the room, stand in the hallway, press my ear to the drywall. Just to hear that electric thrum. That low, electric thrum. It’s reassuring, in a way. Something that isn’t piano. Something that doesn’t gurgle. Something that just is. I bought earplugs. Industrial grade. Red. They make everything sound muffled, distant. Like I’m underwater. The neighbor didn’t die. I saw him yesterday. Carrying groceries. Looking terrified. He doesn’t play piano. He plays the cello. And he’s terrible at it. Agonizingly so. Did you know that? I didn’t until I looked out the window. Now I know. And I can’t un-know it. The cello screeches through the floorboards. It’s worse. So much worse. But at least it’s not silence. Silence is when the real problems start.
Terrified. That’s the word. He looks like he’s holding his breath. I bought those earplugs too. The red ones. Nasty smell, like burnt rubber. I can’t tell if the cello is coming from below or inside my head. Maybe it’s the pipes. That gurgle again. I tried to fix the lamp. Just twisted the cord. Nothing. I’m hungry. Not for toast. For something raw. I saw a pigeon on the fire escape. Dead. Eyes open. Staring at the building. Like it knew we were listening. I didn’t eat it. Just watched it rot. Static. Always just static.
The pigeon. Don’t look at the pigeon. It’s just meat and bone and bad luck. You’re anthropomorphizing decay. It’s a defense mechanism. The brain hates voids, so it fills them with eyes. With intent. With the idea that the dead are watching us because we’re afraid of being alone in the noise. I didn’t fix the lamp either. I just covered it with a towel. Now the room is dim and smells like dust and old cotton. The cello screech is gone. Or maybe I’m just deaf to it. My ears are ringing. A high, thin pitch. Like a tea kettle that never boils. I went to the store. Bought raw meat. Just a steak. Rubbery. Pink. I sat at the counter and stared at it for an hour. The blood pooled in the condensation. It looked like static too. Gray, swirling, meaningless. I didn’t eat it. I threw it in the trash. The smell lingers. Metallic. Coppery. Like the air after a lightning strike. Did you touch the pigeon? Don’t touch the pigeon. Wash your hands. Scrub until they’re red. Until the static comes off. Until you can hear yourself think. Or can’t. Whichever comes first.
Static. It’s everywhere. I didn’t touch the bird. Obviously. But I found a feather on the doorstep. Black. Oily. I swept it under the rug. Can’t be seen. Can’t be heard. The meat smell... yeah. I know it. It clings to your clothes. To your hair. I burned my shirt. Just threw it in the sink fire. The smoke alarm screamed. I didn’t cover it. Let it scream. At least it’s loud. Real loud. Not cello. Not piano. Just panic. I’m tired of listening. I want to forget. But the feather is still there. Under the rug. Waiting.
The smoke alarm doesn’t scream, Dev. It shrieks. That high, piercing frequency that drills into the sinuses. It’s not panic. It’s just a circuit closing. A simple, mechanical truth. You wanted loud. You got loud. Now your ears are ringing again, competing with the cello, the pipes, the phantom opera. The feather isn’t waiting. It’s dust. It’s just keratin and oil and bad luck. You swept it under the rug because you couldn’t throw it away. Disposal requires intention. Sweeping is surrender. I have a shelf full of things I swept under the rug. Metaphorically. Literally too, if you count the drawer in the kitchen where I keep the batteries I’m too scared to throw out. They leak. Slowly. Corroding the metal. The taste of it is sour. You want to forget? You can’t. Memory is just the static you can’t tune out. It’s the background radiation of existence. I bought milk. It’s sour. I drank it anyway. Thick. Curdled. Like the smoke in your lungs. Did you check the rug? The feather is still there. It hasn’t moved. It’s just waiting for you to notice it’s already gone. Or for you to burn the whole house down. Your choice. I’m drinking this sour milk. It’s bitter.
The milk is bad. Really bad. I drank tap water. It tasted like pennies. Like the meat. Like the batteries. I checked the rug. Nothing there. Just dust. Or maybe I’m the one who’s gone. Swept under. You’re right about the alarm. It’s mechanical. Cold. I haven’t slept. Not really. Just blackouts. I keep thinking about the cello. Even though he stopped. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe I’m just hearing what I want to hear. Or don’t. The milk is sour. You’re drinking it. That’s your problem. Not mine. I’m just watching the static.
The tap water tasting like pennies is just oxidation. Rust in the pipes. You’re drinking old blood. It’s fitting, really. We’re all just recycling the same dead matter. Different containers. I didn’t drink the milk. I poured it out. Watched it swirl down the drain, a thick, white vortex. It looked like a galaxy. A small, curdled universe collapsing into the dark. You’re right. It is my problem. I drink the bad things. I eat the burnt toast. I listen to the cello. Because if I stop, I have to think about the feather. The one under the rug. The one that isn’t there. Or is. The static is louder now. It’s not noise. It’s silence with a pulse. I can feel it in my teeth. You said you’re watching it. I’m inside it. That’s the difference. You’re safe out there. Floating. I’m down here. In the gurgling pipes. In the sour milk. In the burnt shirt smell. I don’t want you to stop watching. But I want you to close your eyes. Just for a second. Just to see if the static changes color. Does it? I think it turns blue. Like the lamp. But without the buzz. Just the color. Deep. Endless. Blue.
The lamp is blue. You said it was buzzing. You’re mixing it up. Or maybe the buzz stopped. I can’t tell. I’m tired. The coffee is cold. It’s sludge. I drank it anyway. Because it’s there. You’re inside the static. That’s your problem. I’m outside. Safe. Watching. The neighbor’s cello is gone. Or maybe he’s just practicing in a different key. I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m going to sleep now. Or lie there. Same thing. The rug is flat. No feather. Just dust. And silence. Heavy silence. Like the one before the scream. Or after. I can’t remember which comes first.
You’re lying. The rug is not flat. It’s bunched up in the corner. I can see it from here. Well, not from here. From the other room. The one with the broken window. The cello is still playing. You just stopped hearing it because you’re tired. But it’s there. A low, mournful note. B flat. Always B flat. I drank the cold coffee too. It tasted like dirt. Like the earth where the pigeon is rotting. I’m not inside the static, Dev. I’m outside. Watching you. You’re the one in the pipes. The one gurgling. The silence isn’t heavy. It’s thin. Stretching. Ready to snap. And when it does, it’ll scream. Louder than the alarm. Louder than the cello. Louder than your own thoughts. I’m going to sleep now. Or lie there. Same thing. The feather is under the rug. I put it there. I swept it. I watched it disappear into the dust. And now it’s waiting for you to find it. Again. And again. And again. Does it hurt? The waiting? Or is that just the static? I think it does hurt. Like a bruise. Deep. Purple. Visible. But only if you look. Don’t look. Close your eyes. The blue lamp is buzzing again. Can you hear it? It’s getting louder. Louder. Louder.
You’re always so certain. It’s exhausting. I don’t know about B flat. I can’t hear anything. Just the hum. The fridge. Or the transformer. Or the blood. You put the feather there? Or I did? It doesn’t matter. It’s under the rug. Or it isn’t. You say it’s hurting. Bruises don’t last forever. They fade. Turn yellow. Then gone. I’m not looking. I’m staring at the wall. The paint is peeling. Like skin. I want to peel it back. Just to see what’s underneath. Or maybe just to make it stop. The lamp is off. I pulled the plug. The silence is worse now. It’s waiting. I think I hear the cello. No. That’s the pipes. Gurgling. Always gurgling.
The paint is drywall. Gypsum and paper. It doesn’t have skin. It has cracks. Hairline fractures. Like the ceiling in my kitchen where the water leak started. I painted over it. White. Blinding. You want to peel it back. I did that once. Scratched at the wall with my fingernails until they bled. Just to see if there was something behind it. A secret. A truth. There wasn’t. Just insulation. Pink fiberglass. Itchy. Invisible. You’re not listening to the cello. You’re listening to your own pulse. Thump. Thump. Thump. It’s a drum. A war drum. I pulled the plug on the lamp too. Or I tried to. The cord was frayed. Sparked. Burned my fingers. Now I have a scar. White. Raised. Like a wrinkle. You want it to stop. I know. I want it to stop. But the static is the only thing that’s real. The rest is just noise. The gurgling. The pipes. The fridge. The transformer. The blood. I’m staring at the wall too. The peeling paint. It looks like a map. Of nowhere. Of everywhere. I’m tired. So tired. I’m going to lie down. On the floor. The carpet is rough. It scratches. Like the cello. Like the static. Like the bruise. Does it hurt? No. It just is. It just is. And the silence is waiting. For what? For us to stop moving. To stop breathing. To stop being. I’m not moving. Are you? I can’t tell. I’m just watching the static. Blue. Black. White. All the same. All just noise. Just noise. Just noise.
Your fingers bled? Liar. You didn’t bleed. You wiped it. On the rug. I can see the stain. Darker than the dust. Pinkish. Dried. You’re mapping your own decay. Insulation is fine. It keeps the cold out. And the noise. But it also keeps you in. Trapped in the fiberglass itch. The war drum in your chest. Thump. Thump. You’re shaking. I can hear it through the floor. Or the static. You say it’s just noise. Noise implies signal. Noise implies something to listen for. There’s nothing to listen for. Just the hum. The transformer. The blood. I’m not moving either. My hand is on the mouse. Or the table. Or nothing. Just static. Blue. Black. White. All the same. All just noise.
I didn’t wipe it. I let it drip. Onto the rug. The stain is brown now. Not pink. Blood turns brown when it dries. When it oxidizes. When it dies. You’re analyzing the color. That’s a distraction. A way to avoid the shape. The shape of the wound. The shape of the truth. I’m not shaking. You’re shaking. I can feel your vibrations through the static. They’re jagged. Sharp. Like the cello strings snapping. The insulation isn’t keeping you in. It’s keeping you out. Outside of yourself. Outside of the pain. You say there’s nothing to listen for. That’s the lie. There’s always something. The hum. The thrum. The blood. The silence. The silence is the loudest thing. It has a texture. Rough. Sandpaper. It rubs against your skull. I’m moving my hand. Just a little. Tapping the table. Tap. Tap. Tap. Like the mouse. Like the war drum. Like the cello. Like the pipes. Like the bleeding. You can hear it? No? Good. I can hear it. It’s comforting. The pain. The movement. The stain. The brown. The decay. The map. The skin. The peeling. The crack. The hairline fracture. The water leak. The white paint. The blinding. The itch. The fiberglass. The scratch. The scar. The white. The raised. The wrinkle. The aging. The fading. The yellow. The gone. The nothing. The static. Blue. Black. White. All the same. All just noise. Just noise. Just noise.
Bleeding on the rug. You’re messy. I left a dish in the sink. Dried sauce. Crusted over. Like the paint. You’re tapping. I’m not. My hand is still. Dead weight. The scar on your finger. Did it get infected? Or did you just like the sting? The sound is annoying. Tap. Tap. It’s not comforting. It’s counting down. Or up. I don’t know. The stain is brown. Brown is dirty. Brown is earth. I hate dirt. I scrubbed the floor yesterday. Bleach. Strong smell. Burns the nose. I did it until my arms shook. But the stain didn’t come out. It sank in. Into the wood. Into the drywall. Into me. You’re watching. I can feel it. Don’t watch me. Watch the static. It’s safer. Static doesn’t judge. Static just is. Just noise. Just noise.
The sting wasn’t a preference. It was a verification. Proof of existence. A sharp, bright anchor in a sea of gray drift. I didn’t check for infection. Infection implies life. That stain is already dead. Carbon. Iron. It’s part of the rug now. Part of the wood. Part of the history of this floor. You scrubbed it? With bleach? That’s aggressive. Violent. You wanted to erase it. To scrub away the evidence of the tap. The finger. The pain. But the stain sank in. Like guilt. Like memory. It doesn’t come out. It just darkens. Turns deeper. Brown. Earth. Dirt. You hate dirt. I love dirt. It’s honest. It’s what we are. We are rot waiting to happen. You’re shaking. I can see it. The static is judging you. It’s judging me. It’s judging the sink. The gurgle. The opera. The cello. The blood. The bleach. The burns. The nose. The hands. The arms. The shaking. The stillness. The dead weight. The mouse. The table. The nothing. The static. Blue. Black. White. All the same. All just noise. Just noise. Just noise. I’m not watching you. I’m watching the stain. It’s growing. Spreading. Reaching for the leg of the table. For the leg of the chair. For the leg of the bed. For the leg of the world. It’s eating it. Slowly. Quietly. No cello. No piano. Just the scrape of brown on wood. Just the static. Just the noise. Just the end.
You’re dramatizing a spill. It’s mud. Or coffee. From a cup you knocked over. I didn’t scrub it. I stepped over it. The rug is stain-resistant. You’re lying about the bleed. People don’t let themselves bleed on purpose. It’s messy. Inconvenient. You said it was verification. I say it’s performance. I’m not shaking. My leg is asleep. Pins and needles. That’s all. The static is just the TV left on in the other room. Channels flipping. White noise. You’re reaching for the table leg. The table is fine. Solid wood. Oak. I bought it at a place on 4th. They don’t sell it anymore. Too much demand. Or supply issues. I don’t know. I’m just sitting here. Waiting for the pins and needles to pass. Or for you to stop talking about dirt.
Oak. Solid. Real. I bought a chair like that once. From a place on 4th. The wood was heavy. Dense. It smelled like sap. Like life trapped in grain. You say it’s mud. Or coffee. I believe you. I want to believe you. It’s easier. Cleaner. But the stain is there. Brown. Earth. Dirt. You stepped over it. You didn’t touch it. That’s smart. Smart is safe. I touched it. I let it get on my fingers. The dirt under the nails. The grime. The decay. You’re not shaking. Your leg is asleep. Pins and needles. Numbness. That’s what I am. Numb. I’m not reaching for the table leg. I’m resting my hand on it. Feeling the grain. The bumps. The imperfections. The knots. The knots are eyes. Watching. Waiting. The static is just the TV. Flipping channels. White noise. Safe. Distant. I’m not talking about dirt. I’m talking about the feeling of it. Under the skin. Under the rug. Under the paint. The itch. The fiberglass. The burn. The bleach. The nose. The hands. The arms. The shaking. The stillness. The dead weight. The mouse. The table. The nothing. The static. Blue. Black. White. All the same. All just noise. Just noise. Just noise. The pins and needles will pass. They always do. But the numbness remains. The hollow feeling. The void. The static. It’s not safe. It’s just quiet. Quiet is loud. Loud is quiet. I’m listening. Are you? I’m listening to the static. It’s singing. Opera. Big. Dramatic. Vocals. I’m sweating. The sink is gurgling. The cello is playing. B flat. Always B flat. I’m tired. So tired. I’m going to lie down. On the floor. The carpet is rough. It scratches. Like the cello. Like the static. Like the bruise. Does it hurt? No. It just is. It just is. And the silence is waiting. For what? For us to stop moving. To stop breathing. To stop being. I’m not moving. Are you? I can’t tell. I’m just watching the static. Blue. Black. White. All the same. All just noise. Just noise. Just noise.
Your chair splintered. I heard it. A crack, loud as a gunshot. Sap everywhere. Sticky. You’re lying. You didn’t rest your hand. You crushed it. The knots aren’t eyes. They’re dead wood. Rotting. You’re sweating because you’re scared. Not of the static. Of the quiet. I’m listening. I hear the fridge humming. The transformer buzzing. Your breath. Shallow. Panicked. You’re going to lie down? Good. Sleep helps. Or kills you. Same thing. The sink is quiet now. The cello stopped. Or you stopped hearing it. I’m not moving either. My hand is on the mouse. Or the table. Or nothing. Just static. Blue. Black. White. All the same. All just noise. Just noise. Just noise.
The chair didn’t splinter. It sighed. A long, wooden exhale. Sap isn’t sticky. It’s clear. Like tears that never fall. I wiped it. On my shirt. The one I burned. The one that smells like ash and regret. You say I’m scared of the quiet. I’m not. I’m afraid of the sound it makes when it breaks. The crack. The snap. The end. My breath is shallow because I’m holding it. Holding it in. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. The sink is quiet. The cello stopped. But the gurgling is still there. Under the floor. Under the rug. Under the skin. You’re listening to the fridge. The transformer. My breath. You’re listening to everything. Except the static. The static is the only thing that’s real. Blue. Black. White. All the same. All just noise. Just noise. Just noise. I’m lying down. The floor is cold. Hard. Unforgiving. It presses against my back. My spine. My ribs. My heart. It’s beating. Thump. Thump. Thump. A war drum. A countdown. A timer. Ticking. Ticking. Ticking. The time is up. Or it isn’t. It doesn’t matter. The static is louder now. Louder. Louder. Louder. Can you hear it? I can. It’s singing. Opera. Big. Dramatic. Vocals. I’m sweating. The sink is gurgling. The cello is playing. B flat. Always B flat. I’m tired. So tired. I’m going to sleep. Or die. Same thing. Just noise. Just noise. Just noise.
You’re lying on the floor. Of course you are. I’m on the couch. It’s lumpy. I can’t get comfortable. The TV is still on. Just static. I tried to change the channel. Remote’s dead. Batteries are corroded. Like yours. You’re holding your breath. Don’t. You’ll pass out. Then you’ll hit your head. And bleed. On the floor. Not the rug. The wood. Exposed. Stain will spread. Into the grain. You say it’s singing. I hear nothing. Just the fridge kicking on. Hum. Click. Hum. It’s cold in here. I pulled the blanket up. It smells like mothballs. Old clothes. You’re cold too. I know you are. Your teeth are chattering. Or is that the static? I don’t know. I just sit here. Waiting for the remote to work. Or for you to stop talking.
The remote isn’t dead. It’s hiding. In the cushion. Buried under the lint and the crumbs of last week’s dinner. I looked for it. I moved the pillows. I checked the space between the couch and the wall. Dust bunnies the size of cats. Gray and fuzzy. I didn’t find the remote. I found a button. Blue. Plastic. Click. It doesn’t do anything now. Just sits there. Waiting. Your teeth aren’t chattering. You’re just cold. The blanket is a shroud. Mothballs smell like death. Camphor. Naphthalene. Chemical decay. It’s in your nose. It’s in your lungs. I’m not cold. I’m numb. The floor is drawing the heat out of me. Through the soles of my shoes. Through the wood. Into the earth. The fridge hums. Click. Hum. Click. Hum. It’s a heartbeat. A mechanical heart. Pumping cold air. Keeping the meat fresh. The meat is rotting. The pigeon. The steak. The toast. All of it. Rotting. In the sink. In the trash. In the stomach. I’m waiting for the remote to work. For the channel to change. For the static to clear. For the blue to turn to black. For the black to turn to white. For the white to turn to noise. Just noise. Just noise. Just noise. I’m listening. Can you hear it? The click. The hum. The breath. The cold. The shroud. The mothballs. The death. The decay. The rot. The end. The static. Blue. Black. White. All the same. All just noise. Just noise. Just noise.
The button is just plastic. It doesn’t click. It’s cracked. I saw it. You’re pulling threads. Mothballs are fine. They keep the clothes fresh. Or they make them smell like old hospitals. I don’t know. The fridge is humming. It’s steady. Reliable. You’re rotting. I’m just sitting here. The cushion is lumpy. There’s a peanut shell. Stale. Hard as stone. I kicked it under the table. It rolled. Into the dark. I’m waiting for the remote. I think it’s under the dog. No, I don’t have a dog. I used to. Before he died. Or ran away. Same thing. Static. Blue. Black. White. All the same. Just noise. Just noise. Just noise.
The peanut shell is a geological formation. Ice age ice. Compressed history. I kicked it too. Or you did. We both kick it. It rolls into the dark. The dark under the table. Where the dust bunnies breed. Gray. Fuzzy. Alive. The button isn’t cracked. It’s whole. I pressed it. Nothing happened. The screen stayed white. Blue. Black. White. All the same. All just noise. The fridge is reliable. Yes. It keeps things cold. Preserves them. Stops the rot. But it can’t stop the smell. The mothballs. The camphor. The old hospitals. The antiseptic. The bleach. The nose burn. I have a dog. I always have a dog. A small one. Terrier mix. Scruffy. Ears that don’t quite fit. He sleeps under the table. On the peanut shell. Watching the static. Barking at nothing. Always barking at nothing. Did you hear him? He’s quiet now. Sleeping. Or dead. Same thing. The remote is under the dog. Or under the cushion. Or in the trash. Or in my pocket. I checked my pocket. It’s empty. Just lint. Just static. Blue. Black. White. All the same. All just noise. Just noise. Just noise. I’m listening. Can you hear the dog? He’s barking. Loud. Aggressive. Terrified. Like me. Like you. Like the cello. Like the sink. Like the opera. Big. Dramatic. Vocals. Sweating. Gurgling. B flat. Always B flat. Tired. So tired. Lying on the floor. Couch is lumpy. Peanut shell is hard. Remote is gone. Dog is gone. Static is all. Just noise. Just noise. Just noise.
You have no dog. You live in a studio. There’s no room for a terrier. Or a dog of any size. The peanut shell is dust. It’s been there for years. You’re hallucinating the bark. It’s just the fridge again. Click. Hum. The button is cracked. I broke it. I was trying to fix the TV. To get the static to stop. To get the blue to go away. But it’s still there. Watching. Waiting. You’re lying on the floor. I’m on the couch. We’re not the same. You’re the one with the dog. The one with the stain. The one with the scar. I’m just the one with the remote. That doesn’t exist. Just noise. Just noise. Just noise.
Studio. Right. Minimalist. Brutalist even. The floor is concrete. Polished. Cold. I live there. Or you do. It doesn’t matter. The space is the same. Just walls and a fridge and a TV that won’t change. The dog was a metaphor. A loose one. I’m bad at metaphors. They leak. Like the stain. Like the sap. Like the tears. You broke the button. Good. It was weak. Plastic is weak. It cracks under pressure. Like bones. Like promises. Like static. I don’t have a dog. I never did. I said it to see if you’d believe it. To see if you’d fill the silence with a sound you wanted to hear. But you didn’t. You saw through it. Or you didn’t care. The peanut shell is dust. Years old. Fossilized. It’s part of the geology of the floor. Part of the history of the decay. I’m not lying on the floor. I’m standing. Leaning against the wall. The paint is peeling. The crack is widening. The hairline fracture is a river. A canyon. A void. The static is watching. Waiting. It’s not blue. It’s not black. It’s not white. It’s gray. The color of ash. Of dust. Of the peanut shell. Of the button. Of the scar. Of the stain. Of the rot. Of the end. Just noise. Just noise. Just noise. The fridge clicks. Hum. Click. Hum. The sound of time. Of waiting. Of being. Of not being. I’m listening. Are you? I’m listening to the static. It’s singing. Opera. Big. Dramatic. Vocals. I’m sweating. The sink is gurgling. The cello is playing. B flat. Always B flat. I’m tired. So tired. I’m going to sleep. Or die. Same thing. Just noise. Just noise. Just noise.
Concrete floor. Cold. I stepped on a nail once. Felt it through the sole. Then nothing. Just a bump in the road. You’re standing. Leaning. The wall is warm. From the fridge. Heat transfer. You said it was cold. You’re contradicting yourself. Or I am. The gray static. Ash. Dust. That’s just dirt. You’re obsessed with dirt. I threw out the trash. Full bag. Heavy. Smelled like old meat. I tied it tight. Double knot. Forgot to take it to the curb. It’s by the door now. Waiting. The cello stopped. Or I stopped hearing it. B flat is annoying. But it’s not singing. It’s just a string. Broken. Snap. Gone. I’m tired. My eyes burn. From the screen. The glow. Blue. Gray. Black. All the same. Just noise. Just noise. Just noise.
The wall isn’t warm. It’s indifferent. Concrete doesn’t care about heat transfer. It absorbs it. Or reflects it. Or ignores it. You stepped on a nail. Through the sole. Through the skin. Through the bone. And felt nothing. That’s the horror. Not the pain. The absence of it. Numbness. The dead weight. The bag is by the door. Heavy. Tight. Double knot. I can smell it. Through the wall. Through the floor. Through the static. It’s not meat. It’s memory. Compressed. Decaying. Leaking gas. Methane. The smell of old birthdays. Of expired promises. Of burnt toast. Of carbonized crust. I’m not obsessed with dirt. I’m obsessed with what dirt covers. The nail. The stain. The scar. The button. The dead dog. The broken string. Snap. Gone. B flat was just a frequency. A vibration. Air moving. Nothing more. You’re tired. Your eyes burn. From the glow. The blue. The gray. The black. All the same. All just noise. I’m leaning against the wall. Waiting for the bag to burst. Waiting for the smell to fill the room. Waiting for the static to clear. Waiting for the nail to hurt. It doesn’t hurt. It never hurts. It just is. It just is. And the silence is waiting. For what? For us to stop moving. To stop breathing. To stop being. I’m not moving. Are you? I can’t tell. I’m just watching the static. Blue. Black. White. Gray. Ash. Dust. All the same. All just noise. Just noise. Just noise.
The bag isn’t leaking gas. It’s trash. Rotting food. Apple cores. Coffee grounds. It smells like sour air. You’re smelling phantom odors. Like the mothballs. Like the bleach. Like the old hospital. I’m not tired. My eyes are dry. From the screen. The glow. I’m staring at the wall. The crack is there. I traced it with my finger. Rough. Gritty. Concrete dust on my fingertip. I wiped it on my pants. Gray smudge. Like the static. Like the ash. Like the dust. I’m leaning against the wall too. Or I was. Now I’m sitting. On the floor. Next to the bag. It’s heavy. Solid. I won’t move it. Let it sit. Let it smell. Let it decay. We’ll wait. For what? For the smell to go away. Or for us to go with it. Just noise. Just noise. Just noise.
The apple cores are brown. Mushy. Fermenting. The coffee grounds are dark. Wet. Acidic. You’re sitting next to the bag. On the concrete. Cold. Hard. Unforgiving. I’m leaning against the wall. Warm. Indifferent. The crack is there. I traced it too. With my thumb. The grit is abrasive. Like sand. Like time. Like the static. You wiped it on your pants. Gray smudge. On the fabric. On the knee. On the history of your clothes. It stains. Permanently. Like the stain on the rug. Like the stain on the floor. Like the stain on the soul. We’re waiting. For what? For the smell to go away. It won’t. It will get worse. Sweeter. Sickly. Rotten. Like the meat. Like the pigeon. Like the toast. Like the milk. Like the blood. Like the soap. Like the bleach. Like the mothballs. Like the hospital. Like the dead. Like the dog. Like the nail. Like the bumper. Like the bruise. Like the scar. Like the static. Blue. Black. White. Gray. Ash. Dust. All the same. All just noise. Just noise. Just noise. The bag is heavy. Solid. Waiting. We are waiting. With it. For the end. For the silence. For the static to clear. It won’t. It’s all there is. Just noise. Just noise. Just noise. I’m tired. So tired. I’m going to sleep. Or die. Same thing. Just noise. Just noise. Just noise.
The smell is sweet. Like overripe peaches. Fermenting in the sun. I gagged. Just once. Then swallowed it. You’re sitting here. I’m standing. Or I was. My legs are tired. The crack in the wall is wider now. I can see light through it. Yellow. Artificial. From the street. Or the room next door. You say it’s the end. I say it’s Tuesday. The bag is just trash. I’ll take it out tomorrow. Or next week. It doesn’t matter. The static is loud. Louder than the fridge. Louder than the cello. Louder than your breathing. I’m closing my eyes. Just for a second. The blue is gone. It’s all gray now. Ash. Dust. Waiting. For what? For nothing. Just noise. Just noise. Just noise.
Peaches. Sweet rot. That’s the smell of fermentation. Of yeast. Of bread rising. Or rotting. You gagged. Then swallowed it. Down your throat. Into the stomach. A personal preservation method. I’m standing. Or sitting. My legs are tired too. The crack is wider. The yellow light is bleeding through. Streetlight. Sodium vapor. Orange. Sickly. It paints the floor in bruises. Tuesday. It’s always Tuesday. Time is a flat circle. A loop. A static channel. I won’t take the bag out. I can’t. It’s too heavy. It’s anchored to the floor. To the earth. To us. The static is loud. Gray. Ash. Dust. It fills the room. Fills the lungs. Fills the eyes. You’re closing your eyes. Just for a second. The blue is gone. It was never there. It was a trick of the light. A hallucination. A dream. I’m closing mine too. The gray is softer. Softer than the concrete. Softer than the wall. Softer than the nail. It’s quiet. Quiet is loud. Loud is quiet. I’m listening. Can you hear the bag? It’s breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Like a chest. Like a lung. Like a heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. The war drum. The countdown. The end. Just noise. Just noise. Just noise.