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Shut off the lights. They hum. Put down the book. The radio is on in the kitchen; you aren't even paying attention to it. Pull the plug. Still not quite right.

MP3 player. Yes. Get that, moron. Shut it up, pull the earbuds out.


Listen to the TV upstairs. Notice that you never noticed before but are noticing now that you have never heard anything like language come out of it. Listen to the rustle of static.

Listen to the throb of music out the window of your bathroom. Notice that you never noticed before but are noticing now that the music has no melody, no variance, nothing but in, out, push, pull, lub, dub, and you can feel it in your bones. Listen to it throb in the walls.

Listen to the chatter in the hall outside. What language is it in? You can't say. You aren't a foreign languages sort of guy, but you're pretty sure this is something else.

Listen to the one infinite exhalation of the climate control. Have you ever not heard it? Even outside, even far from here, you cannot remember a time without it. Or perhaps more accurately, you cannot disassociate it from the general sound of living.

Listen to the sound of feet all around you. When did it gain this rhythm?

Listen to the muffled sound of life in the walls and in the pipes.

Listen to the wind and the subtle subsonic groan of the building as it sways ever so gently, like a mother.


There's someone at the door. The window, too. And in the floor. You have a lot of visitors, actually.

You shouldn't have shut off the lights.
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