Society’s unseen still make a sound—
at times, it’s a finespun hum, soft as a child’s made-up song about flower buds and pebbles resembling insect pillows.
Other times, the sound of the unseen is more like silence with its sobriety chip of sunlight, sweating out the hours until it falls off the wagon into another evening of sirens and explosions.
Or it’s like a eulogy whispered by winds passing through ghost towns, the hypnotic lull and lament unnoticed by the legions and lesions of the hateful, their guns aimed and ready to shoot at any human decency that moves.
This sound of the unseen—one of life’s many songs of survival.