The perfect conductor of the resonance of life is the one living it. Who could know more than what one can as the clues compound and present in waves across the body terrain than the one the waves move across trying to tell the stories that they bring?
Perhaps someone near can hear them too, but who’s to say they hear the story the same way, if they hear it at all?
Who’s to say?
Is blue blue the same way to you that it is to me? Can I see the way you do? Only by description, so it seems. Please describe the blue you see, if you do see blue at all.
The boom box car drives by and it’s hard to imagine why anyone would want to sit on the top of a vibrating box, especially one so base. What does one feel good about it that another doesn’t? So much noise — so much bad vibration ruining the softer waves that are trying so hard to tell their stories of the truth — of what is real?
Good good good good vibrations. Who wouldn’t want to go to a blossom world? Who wouldn’t want to hear the sound of a gentle word?
The chimes ting and break the noise — but another motor makes its way across the gentle waves and interrupts the ting again.
Is it the cost of living not quite alone?
Civility is bankrupt.
Is captivity the price to be alive?
Well, who’s to say?
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