Noise

Upstairs, there is this clusterfuck of noise, the strange laughing of white joys, sounding in the syncopated rhythm of poor excitement and no hellos. Music from my past plays, its pulse familiar but now an ever distant melody of an old alternate universe, a reference point in my time tube that has passed and a place that this player is precarious to return to.

A vicarious vocalist, vibrating the audible atmosphere groans and screams in song, dying to tell a story, yet doubting if anyone listens at all.

There is an annoying buzz of wings, an ugly black worm in the sky, fighting to get me to get up and roll up a cylindrical column of information, only to whack the wings of the fly so it will fall to its death.