If you listen, you can hear it.
The city, it sings.
If you stand quietly, at the foot of a garden, in the middle of a street, on the roof of a house.
It’s clearest at night, when the sound cuts more sharply across the surface of things, when the song reaches out to a place inside you.
It’s a wordless song, for the most, but it’s a song all the same, and nobody hearing it could doubt what it sings.
And the song sings the loudest when you pick out each note.
The city, it sings.
If you stand quietly, at the foot of a garden, in the middle of a street, on the roof of a house.
It’s clearest at night, when the sound cuts more sharply across the surface of things, when the song reaches out to a place inside you.
It’s a wordless song, for the most, but it’s a song all the same, and nobody hearing it could doubt what it sings.
And the song sings the loudest when you pick out each note.
Jon McGregor, from If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things
A 23-year old recent college grad, ENFP (so they tell me), nostalgia-prone yet eternally optimistic. An aspiring writer who spends her weekdays answering phones and preparing court filings--everyone has to have a day job, right?
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