She never hears just one. She hears ‘many voices’ at a time, overlapping one another like seagulls, or spaghettis, or drunken patrons in a rowdy bar on the outskirts of a remote town.
Just so happens that’s exactly where we are. A rowdy bar in a remote town.
At a thousand miles an hour, these voices tear at her stockings as she moves towards the promise of silence on the other side of the door.
A door I just entered through.
She’s edging my way, painstakingly through the party-goers, as the spaces between them narrow, like rough, unforgiving rock crevices.
In this moment, the bliss of watching her wedged between infinity and the urgency of losing her ‘self’, explodes the relentless looping of my never sleeping brain; also called my ‘many voices’.
She has voices.
I have voices.
Are they same ‘many voices’?
Will she be just one more voice I need to add into my echo chamber? Are we the same voice? I guess I will know when we … speak.