The Listener

New York City is where people who are disappearing go. It is very quiet here, silent. A man and woman made love below me. I could hear the bedsprings ringing and the woman singing in sensual pain. My thoughts sped up as they humped faster. Everything is dead in my room except me and my plants. If I keep on identifying my feelings with the feelings of things, I too will be dead. They are talking and laughing now. His deep voice vibrates the air. Her laugh is like water.