This is a test of the Emergency Broadcast System

The stars are blinking their eyes, the rain has slowed down to a chatter. The ticky tacky of my fingers on the keyboard elude even the most interested of parties and I sit.

I listen.

Drums.
Bass.

My head starts to move. Back and forth it bounces. Shy. The notion of unbridled intensity is beyond its grasp.

I sit.
I listen.

A man speaks.

Can you see me passing over? On a silver ship built of popsicle sticks?
Can you see the light shine down through my fingertips?
Heed my advice poor boy. For don't be afraid.
You came up from the ground from a million little pieces. Your a pretty human being. Yea. Your a pretty human being.

Wobble and dance. Dance for all that there was and all that there will be. For everyone here is a crowd. A crowd that came up from a million little pieces.

I sit.
I listen.

There is dead silence now. The empty echos of a time long forgotten which remain pushed to the side. The ticky tacky of my fingers provide my only solace from the violent intrusion of a soundless sound.

Drums.
Bass.

My head begins its decent into its haphazard arc. Back and forth it wobbles.

A man speaks.

I once shook hands with a boy who honestly thinks.
A man, with a penchance for ink.
He said, look. Look to see how well it fits. My nails, my eyes, my lips.
Its beautiful said the man who thought. Truly Insatiable. Incredible.

I light my cigarette and inhale. Acidic gray smoke crawls its way out of my mouth and the ember glows, waiting until it is beckoned again.

I sit.
I wait.