A quiet noise. It is soft, persistent, unworthy of
notice, like background music in a silent room, the volume too low to hear, the
song not worth listening to. It is almost a sound that cancels noise,
intensifying the silence. Then the color, and shape. It is a slight gray like
the floor of a subway, or a sweater that a man wears as he walks through the
morning that begins the rest of his life. The shape is a first a small circle,
but then extends into small, vertical lines, just like static you might see on
a screen. The smell slowly asserts itself; a damp, old smell, but that has the
promise of freshness in it, like old compost that has been spread in the
garden. And as you tilt your head up, you can taste it, feel it running off
your face. Rain.
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