The world begins to grow. Brighter, louder, fuller, it continues to grow. The number on the clock continuing upward, a digital display of an analog idea. The warped glass gives way to her will, allowing her passage out into the world. The thin metal railing began so cold, but is now warm, as if it is now comfortable with the girl’s presence. She is yet another eye watching the street, though unlike the others, she is not electronic.
What started as a dull hum has become raucous and overwhelming. Rather than accept the sound around her, she escapes. The headphone plug is ever so accessible, nearly everything in her possession just waiting to share it’s sound. The harsh, chaotic sounds of the world are effortlessly replaced by that of a peaceful and wondrous utopia. Somehow, just hearing the world as a better place helps her see it as one. Her eyes, trained like an eagle’s, or perhaps a pickpocket’s, scan the street before her.
Suddenly, she is overcome with the need to move. To run. To conquer the world before her. With the speed and accuracy of an assassin, her muscles react to her desire. She flies from her perch, in a graceful mix between leap and dive, and is running from the moment she touches the ground. A path presents itself before her. She effortlessly traverses fences, walls, buildings, anything that presents itself. She is truly free. A smile spreads across her lips as ascends her city.
Her mind climbs ever higher, leaving her body behind. Her footfalls become less important, just a means to reach a goal. One misses it’s target. She plunges from the heavens. The mistake has been made, and there is no time to fix it. Black asphalt embraces her. The world, once so bright, so loud, becomes dark and quiet, forever.
The black liquid drips softly, slowly, almost lovingly down from the strange pieces of machinery above. Each drop impacts with a muted wet plop, yet none can be seen below. The small metal walkway seems frail and insubstantial, as if the darkness could swallow it at any moment, or it could crumble away instantly. No light to be found, save the small glow in the distance, doing little good other than casting shadows that reach towards the nothingness. Only three sounds can be heard, each distinct: the plopping sound, an electric hum that fills the air, and cold metallic clangs, evenly paced, made by footsteps across the walkway. Each footstep falls like a splash of blood onto a carpet, each more perfectly timed than a ticking clock. To the maker of these footsteps, the faint glow seems to grow brighter, however this is a lie. The brightness has not changed at all, only the distance. Distance is such an odd attribute, it changes the way everything is perceived. It can both brighten lights and darken thoughts. The air hangs thick, saturated. The balance of this dim, forgotten place is disturbed by the loudest of screams. Now, only two sounds can be heard. The endless drip, and the electric hum. All is as it was, and it will continue to be so.
So, who else is going to see that new George Speilburton movie Powerful Rangers: Anime Attack?