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the sonic interpretation of my life, occasionally revealed in
the depth of a trumpet or cello, even the deep blast of a tuba,
but mostly it lived in the drums, sounding out the heartbeat
of something hidden and terrible.
I gently opened the door the rest of the way, eager and
curious for fresh revelations. Though, to be honest, I was
well over my respective limit for fresh revelation. The room
seemed far older than what a modern apartment could ever
hope to address. I was to dwell here, to the sound of my
failed life, basking in the grey glow of desperate immortality,
to pace a dirty floor and stare from a single dirty window, in
slowest turns of wonder and despair. It was a pleasant enough
gift, to be sure, and one I wanted to make no immediate
show of rejecting. I didn’t want to ruin a friendship.
My time in the room was indeterminate, as was only
proper within a dream. I did as I would, drowsing in pale
rooms, covered in a kind of merger of dust and shadow, a
soft alliance of two substances barely distinct even within
the firmest of worlds. I did indeed stare from the soiled
window, glimpsing strange sights—occasional leviathans
of some type lurched the opaque distance, restless and
monstrous. There were also the sounds of ceaseless sadness
embodied within their own dour melodies, cobbled from
suicide thoughts and disappointed expectations. This place
was the end of all meaningful hope, a morose equilibria for
the failed and miserable, where one could fade away, quietly,
imperceptibly.
Despite all that, there was indeed beauty in the bleakness,
however small—the dull poetry of common failure, the
ceaseless drone of ordinary silence, the wan, sickly glow of
dying. It was its own art gallery, a perfected habitat for the
greyest pieces, and it was in no need of improvement—save
perhaps for its inability to sustain itself, which almost seemed
a necessary component for a properly ironic existence. And
yet something seemed to linger, undiscovered and out of
place—a purpose.
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