The static. It’s ringing.
Do you hear it? Can you hear me? Why is it ringing like that?
It rings not in my ears, no. The sound of every particle in me buzzing all at once, colliding and building in pressure. It mounts and mounts. But what will it amount to? Static. Ack, it shakes me to my core, how the emptiness in me buzzes with energy. Static, still. What can I do? Like the colours that swim past your vision when you squeeze your eyes tight. The patterns that weave in and out of existence. Somewhere between your reality and your imagination, something unimaginable yet visible. Something that’s nothing.
It rings and rings and rings, like a phone without a caller. An alarm without a fire.
No bait and no switch. No crime, no punishment. No joy, no deliverance.
The sinless, springless gun comes crashing heavily down on the crowns of the innocent and is smothered in ichor nonetheless.
The static. It’s singing.