So I came here today, to the middle of nowhere. To the border between the empty land and the empty sea. I am on the side of the land now, of course. I know it because I do not hear the waves roaring with peaceful roars, which is how the sea roars here on days like today, on windless days. I do not hear anything at all. Nothing but the noise of the pen between my fingers, delicately scratching the paper to form understandable words, perhaps even meanings. It has been more than two years I had not come here. And during this time, there has not been a second without some noise, either pleasant or not.
I have heard a couple making love next door, the wooden bunkbed knocking on the wall, the girl exciting me. I have heard EC playing Cocaine, and the endless buses in London's night. I have heard a woman crying, and it was my fault. The words of a play by Shakespeare. The light and the smoke of pot, cracking. Tracy Chapman going out of a Cambodians computer. Weird sounds, weird places, weird circumstances.
The cloth of air.
And now it is all silent, here, at the border of the sea. Till Sunday.