NFAID # 1007


The twang-spangle of water through a culvert. The trickle that tickles something depthless in the soul — you remember it. You were young enough, small enough, to fit inside that big one near your house, exploring. Corrugated, galvanized tube of endless darkness, the weight of the world bearing down upon it, compressing it into an oval. Ovum. Life’s fount and terminus found in the sewers. Your child-voice expanding sonorously, bouncing back at you with a jangled, acoustic warp. A rich tapestry of organic cycles. The dark sound of the water — the sound of death, you’re now sure. It’s the last sound you’ll hear when it all ends, that sound of memory, of water trickling away. The soundscape of drainage. The hollow and metallic echo that resonates at the end of all existence.

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