Cold rainy night. A stereo's vibrations booming from an apartment next door, I take to bed early, pull the covers up to my chin, and read how in modern Japan it is "as if silence was some kind of vacuum that was abhorrent and had to be filled". 

Noise is everywhere, a sign of the useful citizen who produces and consumes, prosperity's uroborosian loop. Noise is also a strategy to consider how occult forces were instinctively driving Neanderthal people to surpass themselves, in their desire to resist the invasion of new methods the gas is drawn into a series of tubes, in which it solidifies, and is cut in long needles already solid, since before becoming an explosive liquid, it takes the form of a fog of solid spangles of frosty gas and peoples who had not yet appeared, but whom they guessed would inevitably supplant them. It is strange that this competitive climate still prevails for blocking out other people's noise.

The absence of noise is shizukasa: "somewhere between silence and loneliness." It belongs to a myth of a former time, before mass media, when people were in tune with their neighbors, all singing the same songs.

Brain dreams of pre-
times, when
             noise was
                   not art.


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