Voices on the Wind Voices on Relaxation
The City Speaks by David Chorlton Above a hundred degrees the heat starts talking and voices come untethered from the minds controlling them: one asks every stranger passing by for a cigarette, one calls out demanding the repayment of a debt, and another offers anyone a dollar in return for buying a beer from the convenience store that stares through its glass doors onto an empty parking lot at noon because They wonít let me back in. The words fall onto asphalt and evaporate, while the speakerís eyes search for a way out of his face. Here comes someone walking along McDowell Road with a cane supporting his weaker side. He makes eye contact five yards away and veers out of my path at the last possible second, turning his face to an angle avoiding confrontation as he says, barely loud enough to register, quickly, and tinged with shame: I apologise, Iím an asshole. He says that as if it could make him disappear. And sometimes the sunlight doesnít make a sound, as when the man lying down on a bench in the park has taken a position allowing him to sleep with his middle finger still awake and raised assertively to make everyone aware of his opinion.