My battered notebook has gotten wet once or twice; there are pages and pages of spots where the blue and red ink from the lines and margins has bled away and the paper is rough and brittle from drying out.
Birds and windchimes play the arbitrary melody of summer, grounded by the steady hum of the air conditioner and punctuated by a train in the distance, a motorcycle engine, a breeze through dense leaves.
This is silence, broken by the voices of a couple down the block. I can hear them, but can’t see them, as they jockey for power over each other. Neither of them gives a damn, and they battle to see who doesn’t give a damn the loudest.
Then they’re silent, broken by a slamming door. An engine revs, recedes, and then it’s birds and trains and whispering leaves.