I can't even hear my own steps. Just that sound...
It feels like home again. That sense of familiarity, when the author disappears and the character emerges, when Friday takes over my body, slowly, becomes part of the silent rumor that sorrounds me, him, us. I can smell his leather jacket, see his messy hair, hear his silent screaming in a world that was only his. Animals, silence. Everything before Sam, before life, before Explosions in the Sky.
Just me and him and no one walking in empty cities and streets and dust.
That familiar guitar is lost in the night, with everything else, and for a moment, all I see is the blaring white of bus-stop lights, yet another alternate dimension, and the trees that move even though time has left without them.
I am alone, he is alone, but our steps are confused and it makes all the difference, between the music and the cold night and the streetlamps of a wolrd that doesn't exist.
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and for a moment you are someone else, you are somewhere else, you are a million things that will never be seen or touched or understood. Sometimes you try to throw a dustlight lamp on them, and for a moment they are almost tangible. But it's never like when you look into the mirror, and see them whisper back.
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