Listen to that. You know what it is? It is the sound of some kind of thought. Tap tap. Slug-slugga-chug. Glug. That’s what it is. A wooden spatula, churning up thick batter and molasses up in headspace. Preoccupied with the onomatopoeia of your subliminal messages.
Anxiety, though, makes BLASTS of noise. screeeeeech screeeeech scratch-scratchety. The deeper you furrow your brows the higher in pitch it becomes. Listen! LISTEN!!! Yes, the urgency. You can close your ears, but can you close your mind?
If the brain dies. You are brain-dead. I suppose you hear nothing then. I suppose…snip snip synapses, how will you send the message down now? Not even head-sound. You know? Sound in your head, they say when you sing you have to get the sound up, in your head, have it hum there, take it up out of your forehead. But if there is no sound. Not even head-sound.
There is the sound of me typing at 11:12 pm. Trying to sophisticate a sludge of thought into a slurry of words into a cascading cacophony, a rhapsody in sound.