(now this isn't all of it, but am I on the right track?)
I take my place among poets with a love of smooth stanzas and musicians reveling in the perfect harmony of two voices. I situate myself between the writer who listens lovingly to the scratches of her pen on crinkled paper, and the casual observer pricking his ears up to the pitter-patter of raindrops on a window, the tick-tock of an ancient grandfather clock, the smooth gravel of a groggy man's voice, shaken awake.
I am an audiophile, unashamedly in love with sound- with noise, with the force pounding on our eardrums every second of every day.
I was not always like this. However, as I look back on the years past, the swell of sounds engulfs my memory. I am a child repeating my father's erratic words, his accent making the phrases resound like a jagged rock tumbling down a smooth concrete hill. I am the sleepless student tapping her fingertips on the computer keyboard, enviously listening in on the whispery quietness of a sleepy, silent night.
I take my place among poets with a love of smooth stanzas and musicians reveling in the perfect harmony of two voices. I situate myself between the writer who listens lovingly to the scratches of her pen on crinkled paper, and the casual observer pricking his ears up to the pitter-patter of raindrops on a window, the tick-tock of an ancient grandfather clock, the smooth gravel of a groggy man's voice, shaken awake.
I am an audiophile, unashamedly in love with sound- with noise, with the force pounding on our eardrums every second of every day.
I was not always like this. However, as I look back on the years past, the swell of sounds engulfs my memory. I am a child repeating my father's erratic words, his accent making the phrases resound like a jagged rock tumbling down a smooth concrete hill. I am the sleepless student tapping her fingertips on the computer keyboard, enviously listening in on the whispery quietness of a sleepy, silent night.
