We were on the car. The night was colder than usual for a month like that one and there were no stars except the city lights. We remained silent. The scratch of a non-existent vinyl record snowed on us with the slowness of forgetting. Two minutes, twenty-one seconds of sound. A space-age melody, bleeping like a sick cyborg heart. The melancholy of a space cadet contemplating Earth from his spaceship.
The speed of taking your time. Velocity of perception; the tranquility of cosmic seas. The waves of lack of gravity. Nothing extraordinary, but sheer directness, like the static recorded in an incomprehensible alien message. The vehicle moves smoothly on the semi-deserted streets. A shower of streetlights falls upon us for the short length of this message transmitted from beyond. There is something else that sound can say.
The music of what is not here. The sheer sadness of seeing things from the sky. The sound of being finite. The soundscape of our imagination as we cruised the megalopolis, holding hands, staring in front of us, almost in trance. This is what a crepuscular dawn sounds like.
We are not alone. Believe.
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