I sit in my room. My room on the third floor. It’s an oven, so the window stays open. I guess heat does rise. Does that mean sound does too?
I hear the voices that I know, of the people that I know. My family. I also hear the voices of the strangers. The shadows that live on the street. They screaming and shouting about their lives and their feelings, leaving nothing unsaid. I feel like I know them more than I know myself. They know what pisses them off, and what makes them tick. They know what upsets them, and what they think is wrong. They know what they perceive as the truth. What is it like to be that sure? They say that the powerful and the stupid have one thing in common. That they don’t change their opinions, but they change the facts.
Why is everything so loud?