It lay before me like a soldier bruised and bloodied. White lines traced where the blow fell hardest: veins that flowered out from a concentrated white heart. Shards lay all around it, waiting to rip the unwitting flesh apart, not unlike the dire omen of iron spikes around a mine.
I stared at it unfeeling. I expelled everything in that one pitch. It was cathartic, and sad. Now the silence I drown under is absolute. Or is it? I still have the dawn chorus and the earth-song, and the drone of the bustling city around me. They are there, but they do not hear or respond to me.
Perhaps, like that old phone, I should outgrow my longing and accept that my isolation is absolute, even if it means I should stop all means of intentionally reaching out. It makes me wonder, though, that perhaps an old random thought is true: I am but a curio, transient. Utterly transient. Soon all things will tire of me, like they always do.