I’ve always been a scavenger. And I suppose that’s the problem. Welded together out of scraps. An empty tin shell of armor. Can’t hurt me if there’s nothing there. Fire away. Nary a scratch. A long abandoned hollow where a heart used to beat. Rap on the chest of the knight in the museum. That long slow-fading dong. Sounds are just waves. Disturbances in the air. Just because you stop hearing it doesn’t mean it’s gone. The rest of life drowns it out. The sound that continues past the perceptible is the sound that reverberates after your own heart stops. It joins a wave. It’s part of a hurricane that ravages your shore. That last beat, it comes back in spades. That rock you chuck into the water from the bridge. It keeps expanding in ever widening circles. Ripples radiating out from you, the stone that sinks. Shipwrecks scattering the ocean floor. There’s treasure down there. There’s you, and more.
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