They spent their summers by the lake house. Not so much swimming in the lake so much as staring at it. Not really from the lake shore, so much as from atop the rain tank perched meekly on a tower to the left of the mild cabin that huddled by said lake shore.They would pull up a sound-box and sit it on a plank traversing the radius of the tank and throw some drinks into the teasingly cold water. Music would radiate from their nest, wafting over the whispering waters, tickling the trees and glinting back at the sun.

They would slink back and forth singing and chanting:

“The boat is | be gin ning to | leak a gain.

The boat is | be gin ning to | rock.

We stepped on the| boat, full |  kno wing that,

Even tua lly it would | stop.”

I would sit hidden amongst them. Under ruffly breath, breathily whispering, murmuring, mumbling:

I am not an Island, though I was in the sea.

I was not, I am not, I am a buzzing bee.

I eloped with an urchin, though I was married to the wind.

Slept on through earthquakes of sound and echoes.

Floating has now taken on; a thicker coat, velvet gloves and an ironic wink.

I dream of green blue planets, though I never learnt how to sing.

Not even softly, not in the shower and never in the Spring.

I ride upon the storm-clouds, though I didn’t see the sands.

Kept going through the night, in wait for this to begin.

Should have known,

it began.

.

Remind me,

Of times when we would dance.

From moonrise, till light crept in,

from fresh smoke, to stale bread.

“What is life? A madness. What is life? An illusion, a shadow, a story and the greatest good is little enough for all life is a dream…”

– Life is a Dream; Calderon de la Barca,

—
She felt her ghost toe wriggling in her shoes. Begging her to toss them off. Wear some slippers. Soft. Soft. She’d be in a meeting, skirt smoothed flat, hair tucked in, feet packed up, and then it would begin to taunt her. Nudging the folds of the pumps. Her ankle beginning to itch. A flakey sensation sliding up her back. Sometimes she’d give in. Take off a boot for a minute. Relish in her wickedness. No one knows why she’s smiling. Under the table, her ghost toe is proud of her choice. It goes well. She slips her shoe back on. Leaves.

Sometimes it goes awry. The toe proceeds to inspire mutiny in her foot. Slowly it drags the other apparently normal and visible toes along. Her foot creeps along a chair, prodding someone else’s. She gets odd looks . Snatches her calf and jams the heel down, forces her toes into submission. And gets on with her day.

Such is life. That’s what she deserves it seems. She’s still undecided whether the toe was really worth it. No more late night poker she thinks.
—

I like to listen to the sad Music at the end of odd movies. It’s all dark and the computer is on. The credits are rolling. Dolly Grip. Thomas Green. Assistant to Mr. Durant. Kamini Shah. And between all that is a the minor french voice singing quietly to me through the wiry headphones. It finally reaches some obscure hour of the night, the music stops and the feverous clack of the keys takes over. I pause and trace the shadow of myself on the wall, everything is quiet. It gets to the point where thoughts swell and break upon my chair. I sink in and slip sleep.

This is the sound of the wind stopping, of our eyes closing and the ground forming.
They said it would take a while, so wait we do, wait do we.
The uncertainty was plain to see.
So pause we did, pause did we.

This is the sound of the night breaking, of our breath catching and the skies shaking.
They said it was the end that mattered.
Shattered. Splattered. Nattered.
The uncertainty was plain to see.
But here we stay, stay do we.

This is the sound of strings detaching, of our hearts beating and the world still waiting.