Love (all sorts) is only a chord struck against the air. It approaches tangibility,
delirious delight, and then fades, leaving no trace of its path visible
to the eye.
Once, when I was young, I tried to box sound. Nothing inside
the box: no echo struggling to out.
The box was filled with air, beads of infinitely small moisture; perhaps
a machine could catch the minute echoes that lay embedded in the sides.
Sound rubs off on you, clings. By the end of the day, you are blackened
with sound, deafened.
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