September chirrups high in rafters, pigeons, and tree
rafters, lorikeets. Steps, like vague clockwork across wooden floors. Revs,
anticipatorily at stoplights. Mutters, the muted mundanes of mobiles. Turns a
page or two, taps a word or three. Notes a busker out of key in city overloaded
alike. September whorls invisibly laughter, hums, coughs, slams. Ascends to ear
ensemble, that would turn sound to effects all its own. September asks not why.
Attends where the temple meets the labyrinth of veritable vibrations. Discerns
plain words from overwordiness. Reverberates infinitesimally small thin skin
links. Sounds high up in head stuff, body nerve.
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